


Fonder

by starbuckmeggie



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Anything goes - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Post-Series, Romance, The West Wing - Freeform, cute stuff, donna moss - Freeform, helen santos - Freeform, josh lyman - Freeform, matt santos - Freeform, nothing - Freeform, pointless stuff, relationship, silly stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-06-08 19:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15250866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbuckmeggie/pseuds/starbuckmeggie
Summary: Work trips can be tough to deal with, but you know what they say about absence...





	1. Chapter 1

My feet barely hit the tarmac before Josh swoops in, nearly knocking me over as he hugs me. I immediately grab onto him as I stumble backward. He just tightens his arms around me, burying his face in my neck.

“Hi,” I say, surprised at the ferocity of it all.

“I missed you so much,” he mumbles against my skin. It makes my heart melt.

“I missed you, too,” I answer, reaching up to stroke his hair. I glance over at the President and First Lady, but they’re too busy having their own reunion to notice what we’re doing over here.

Josh picks his head up, the expression on his face a kaleidoscope of emotions. “Don’t go away again,” he whispers, his voice pleading.

“Josh, you know I can’t—” I’m cut off by his mouth on mine, kissing me desperately. I briefly consider pushing him away—the First Couple of the United States is standing feet away from us, not to mention at least a dozen members of various security details—but I don’t have the willpower. I’ve missed him, too, more than I let myself think about until now. Ten days is too long.

“I’ll see you on Monday, Donna.”

I break apart from Josh instantly, all but snapping to attention as I turn to face Mrs. Santos. “Ma’am?”

She rolls her eyes at my choice of word. “Monday morning. I’ll see you then. Try not to wander into work before that.”

The President glances up at us for a couple of seconds before returning his attention to this wife. “You, too, Josh. Barring a national emergency, of course.”

“Thank you, sir,” he answers, cupping my face to bring me in for another kiss. Normally, neither of us would ever consider being this affectionate in front of the Santos’, but they’re off in their own little world at the moment, paying no attention to their Chiefs of Staff. It’s been ten days for them, too, and now we have an officially sanctioned three-day weekend. I think we’re all focused on that at the moment.

Still, we pull ourselves together enough to stand politely while they get into their limo and drive off before making our way over to the waiting town car. Josh holds the door open for me, taking my hand and squeezing my fingers affectionately as he helps me into the car. He scrambles in after me, pressing as close to my side as he can.

“Anywhere you need to go, sir?” the driver, Marlene, calls back to us, glancing at us in the rear view mirror.

Josh lifts his eyebrows at me and I shake my head. “No, thanks. Just home, please.”

 _Home_. I let out a sigh and drop my head back against the seat. God, that sounds amazing. It’s only been a week and a half, but I’ve missed our apartment. I’ve missed trying to shove Josh out of the way as he sprawls almost diagonally across the bed, and trying to yank the covers out from where they get trapped underneath him as he goes from sleeping on his side, to his back, to his other side, then turns in a circle to start the cycle all over again; not that he tosses and turns all night. He can just be a very light sleeper at first. Once he passes out, he hardly moves. Still, I have to constantly shove his dead weight off me after he flops almost completely on top of me at least three times a night. I would have thought that at some point I’d enjoy having a bed all to myself and not have to fight for my usual third of the mattress, but I was surprised to find I was mistaken. Once you get used to sleeping a certain way, it’s hard to go back.

The steady hum of the car’s engine is actually soothing as we make our way out of the airport toward our apartment. I feel Josh shift beside me, his arm sliding around my shoulders, and I crack my eyes open. His face is almost disturbingly close to mine but I smile anyway, just happy to have him near me. He leans in and kisses me again, keeping it quick this time. “I love you,” he whispers, rubbing his nose against mine just a little.

I feel myself grin broadly, unable to help it. We’ve been together for a year and a half and I still can’t get over hearing him say that. “I love you, too.” I reach up and stroke his cheek, pulling him in for another kiss. He sighs against my mouth a few moments later, finally settling down next to me.

“I wonder if we’re going to have to deal with another story about another broken bed,” he says suddenly. I sit up and stare at him, baffled.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The President and the First Lady,” he answers softly, trying to be mindful of Marlene and his other guard, Gus, sitting shotgun, though both are too discreet to ever repeat anything. “There was that time when we were campaigning—”

“Yeah, I heard about it.”

“You did? Did I tell you?”

“No, but I have ways. I think it’s sweet that they’ve been married almost seventeen years and still love each other so much.”

“Love each other so much that they can break beds?”

I roll my eyes—he can have trouble seeing the bigger picture at times. “No, that they still feel that sort of passion for each other. It doesn’t happen all the time.”

“Are you implying that we don’t—”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Because I think I can definitely do some damage to that bed of ours tonight.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to suppress my grin and failing miserably. “Oh, you think so, do you?”

“It’s been ten days, Donna,” he answers, his voice lowering an octave. “I think I’m capable of it.”

“Ten days isn’t that long, when you think about it, you know. We used to go a lot longer than that.”

He snorts. “Yeah, before we knew what sex was like with each other. Doesn’t count.”

“We’ve gone more than ten days since we’ve been together, too,” I point out, and he makes a face. That part is unfortunately true. Sometimes, between our crazy hours at the White House and the traveling that comes along with our positions, a couple of weeks will have gone by with us only passing like ships in the night. Granted, that happened more in the early months of the administration than it does now, over a year into it, and we always found a way to make up for lost time, but I do know that we can manage to go without sex for extended periods of time and survive.

Not that I ever want to, though.

“Well, I’m just saying, I think I’m in the mood to break some furniture tonight,” he whispers, his mouth finding its way to my neck.

I tilt my head, giving him better access, and sigh. “Put some dents in the walls?”

“Oh, _hell_ yeah.” His hand slides across my stomach until he reaches my hip, pulling me closer.

“We probably shouldn’t try to break the bed, though.” I glance at the front seat of the car, though neither of them seems to be paying attention to us. Granted, their job is to pay more attention to the outside world and potential threats than the two horny adults in the backseat, but I think everyone on Josh’s detail has kind of gotten used to acknowledging then ignoring the two of us when we’re in this mood. “Although, I have found a couple of really nice beds recently, one in particular at this cute little antique shop…”

He lifts his head, looking at me quizzically. “Okay, first off, when did you go to an antique store?”

I smile at him, my head feeling a little hazy. “Josh, you work a lot. I don’t spend all of my free time at the White House. Plus, we live in Georgetown and there are only about a million stores crammed in to every nook and cranny and sometimes I like to explore.”

He makes a face, but only because I know that the thought of spending time wandering in and out of stores is kind of his idea of hell, hence why I’ve never asked him to do it with me. “Well, my second question is, you don’t like our bed?”

“I like our bed fine.”

“But you just said you found some other ones you like.”

“Well, yeah, I find a lot of things I like. That’s the whole point of shopping.”

“I won’t even get into how much stuff you _don’t_ buy,” he says, which is an odd bone of contention with us. I frequently lament about a particular piece of furniture or artwork or even something simple like shoes that caught my eye but haven’t bought, and he always questions why I won’t just get whatever it is that I like. He doesn’t understand that I’ve spent most of my life on a shoestring budget and that it never really occurs to me to just buy something. Josh has never had that issue. While he doesn’t live extravagantly and doesn’t blow through money like some immature college kid, he’s always just bought things without giving it much thought. He seems to think that now that I’m in a better financial position, I should just do what normal people do and buy things; I can’t get him to understand that I can’t just break a thirty year habit after a few decent paychecks. “But if you want a new bed, why didn’t you say something?”

“Josh, I’m not saying that. All I said was that I’ve found a couple of nice ones, not that I need to replace the one we have.”

“Because you can, you know. We have the money for it. We have the money for you to redo the whole place if you want.”

Another small, odd bone of contention. He likes to refer to his money as our money, which I can’t wrap my head around and I frequently tell him is absolutely insane. True enough, I’ve been a signer on his account for years, but that was mostly so when he got too distracted by work to remember to write checks on time, I could do it for him. It really came in handy after he was shot and often in no shape or mood to take care of those things, and he never bothered taking me off the account. Actually, I thought that’s what we were doing when we went into the bank together months ago, and then I somehow wound up as a joint owner of his account. He’s crazy. It never occurred to him how bad of an idea it is to let someone have unlimited access to every single last penny he owns, not that I would ever take his money. He just thinks that because we’re together, what’s his is mine. He’s never demanded the same in return; he just wanted my name on all of his stuff, and now it is. Somehow. I think I was bamboozled the day it happened. That would explain how I’m now also able to access his safe deposit box. The most I do with his financial stuff, though, is deposit part of my pay in with his and write checks for our combined expenses. In his mind, though, I should be using it for everything, including but not limited to buying myself new clothes when the mood hits. I suppose that technically a new bed would fall under household expenses, but I can’t see myself going out and doing that, particularly not without his input, and especially not while the bed we have is actually quite lovely.

“Josh, can we not do this now, please?”

“Do what?” he asks, genuinely confused. I let out a noise and my head drops back as I look at him imploringly. “I’m not doing anything.”

I sigh and put my hand on his leg, giving his thigh a squeeze. He’s right. He’s not doing anything. He’s really just being his normal, sweet, mostly oblivious self. There’s no malice behind his words. I’ve just been on a plane all day and away from home for too long. I need time to decompress. “You’re right.”

His eyebrows reach for his hairline, his forehead crinkling dramatically. “I am?”

I snort, squeezing his leg again. “This is your once a month. Savor it.”

He smiles at me, scooting down next to me so he can press his forehead against my temple. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You really didn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

This dear, sweet man; his worst crime is that he wants to share his life with me. “I’m positive. I’m just tired and cranky.”

“Well, Madame Cranky Pants, we’re almost home. Think you can survive until then?”

I snuggle a little closer to him, letting out a long breath. “No promises.”

He tightens his hold on me and my body relaxes a little. I know I can be oversensitive about the sharing money thing and about how lackadaisical he is with his own finances, but that’s only because I’ve been in a position where I trusted the wrong person and he managed to blow through every cent I had to my name. It was completely my fault and I would absolutely never do that to Josh, but part of me can’t help but feel like he needs to be careful and a little less trusting. I guess, from his point of view, though, he knows I’d never do that to him, so why shouldn’t he trust me?

We sit in silence for the rest of the ride, my mind drifting to the point of unconscious more than once as Josh’s arms keep me warm and cozy. Just sitting like this in the car makes me realize how poorly I slept for the last week and a half—it’s just weird to do it without him next to me. I’ve become absurdly codependent on my boyfriend. Though, really, Josh and I have been pretty codependent for years now.

I open my eyes as the car comes to a stop in front of our building and lean forward to grab the door, stopping at the last minute as I remember we haven’t been given the all clear. I don’t have any trouble remembering to wait when I’m in a car with the First Lady or the President or even out somewhere with Josh, but something about getting home always makes me forget that there’s still protocol to follow. More than a year and a half of this and it still hasn’t sunk in. For his part, Josh usually forgets, too.

I feel his hand on my back as we wait and look over my shoulder at him, smiling. “I love you,” he says softly, and I feel my smile grow wider even as I cock my head at him in confusion.

“I love you, too.”

His fingers press gently along my spine, putting just enough pressure on my sore muscles to make me sigh with satisfaction. The car door opens then, another member of the detail greeting us. “All clear,” Troy says, stepping back to allow us to get out. I pause on the sidewalk so I can grab my luggage but Josh beats me to it, draping my garment bag over his arm as he lifts my small suitcase, finding that easier than pulling out the handle and using the wheels.

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him, reaching out for at least one of my bags, but he just ducks away.

“I don’t mind doing it for you,” he answers as we start to move toward the building, and I can’t help but wonder a little at how different things are now than when I used to drag all of his luggage around on trips or through the White House. We follow Troy upstairs, trailed by Gus. Alex greets us at the top of the stairs, pushing our door open for us. Fortunately, the detail has gotten a bit lighter in the last few months as the threat from Kazakhstan starts to ease up. The extensive group of guards we’ve dealt with for more than a year have been extremely kind and patient with us as we’ve gotten used to having people outside of our front door, stopping us from just walking into a grocery store, and doing constant sweeps of our apartment. It’s felt tedious at times, and definitely frustrating, but we both know it’s ultimately for our safety. Well, technically, it’s for Josh’s safety—I just get to reap the benefits. Lately, some of the usual people have been reassigned to other jobs, and it almost feels like we’re something resembling a regular couple.

“Westport and Wisconsin are safe in the nest,” Alex says into the wrist piece, and I roll my eyes at the names. That was a complete accident. 

Few of us had official codenames when we worked for President Bartlet—most of us weren’t high enough in the chain of command to warrant one, though it wasn’t unusual for some of the agents to assign names anyway. I think the best I got back then was “Blondie.” This time around, though, Josh absolutely had to be given a name. The fun part was that he could pick it out, though he’d be stuck with it for up to eight years. Even Peter and Miranda got to pick their own names, the only catch being that each family unit has to have names that start with the same letter. I was told I needed a codename if I was going to spend most, if not all, of my time with Josh. He was the one who asked the Secret Service if we should have names that started with the same letter, too, which, at the time, I thought was incredibly sweet. I don’t think they cared so much about us having matching names, but they didn’t object to it. However, we only had about three minutes to come up with something. Josh made a couple of lame jokes that had to do with cheese because I’m from Wisconsin, then he had the brilliant revelation that he’s from Westport and that our “W’s” matched. I tried valiantly to come up with something to go with Madison instead, if we were going to go with geographical locations, but no dice. Westport and Wisconsin are the names that stuck. For a while, he tried to convince me that he felt silly being called “Westport,” but he wasn’t very convincing. He likes sounding ritzy and that I sound a little bit like a bumpkin. 

Still, I smile and thank Alex before closing the door, grateful that we at least have the apartment to ourselves most of the time. The members of the detail used to float in and out at fairly regular intervals, but I think they overheard—and probably nearly walked in on—me and Josh having enthusiastic sex on more than one occasion and started finding other, less direct methods of keeping tabs on my boyfriend. I suppose that if you can hear two people moaning and groaning, you can be fairly certain that they’re safe.

I look around the living room, feeling my body relax—it’s really good to be home. Josh hasn’t managed to destroy the place in the last week and a half, which is a minor miracle. Unless, of course, it means he’s been spending all of his free time at work, which seems to be the likely scenario. He probably came here to change clothes and shower, and maybe get a couple of hours of sleep on the couch.

I pause, sniffing the air. “Josh…did you cook?”

He makes a face at me, putting my bags on the floor. “I can cook, you know.”

“I’m not disputing that, I just…wasn’t expecting it.”

“Well, yeah, I made us dinner before going to pick you up.”

I blink in surprise. “You did?”

“I thought you might like a home-cooked meal instead of more delivery or restaurant food.”

“You thought right,” I reassure him, genuinely pleased. “What’d you make?”

He shrugs, suddenly looking bashful. “Just chicken. Nothing fancy. Did you know our oven has a timer? You can put stuff in there and don’t have to worry about it burning or anything because it turns itself off.”

I bite my lip, trying to hold back a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I knew that.” Despite him not knowing that the oven can be set for certain lengths of time, Josh and I do share cooking responsibilities. I just tend to handle the bulk of the day to day stuff, with him doing a lot of the grunt work—chopping, peeling, washing, that sort of thing. But what surprised me most after we got together was that he has an odd flair for fancy dishes. He makes a killer Beef Wellington, not to mention quiche that’s to die for. And he makes soufflés. The most impatient man in the world, the one who tends to barrel around like a bull in a china shop, is able to make one of the most delicate, sensitive foods to exist. He can open up Julia Child’s cookbook and manage to replicate something. He astounds me. Any time we have any occasion to bring food to a gathering—which is, admittedly, rare—he’s in charge of it. He doesn’t usually want to take the credit for it—it makes him feel self-conscious, which is a little novel for him—but the food is always a hit. Conversely, and oddly, he seems to almost completely lack the ability to make simple things, even his hockey puck hamburgers. He has a few things he can be trusted with, but for the most part, I’m the one who does the basic stuff. He always seems happy with what I’ve thrown together, and sometimes I’m really just throwing things together to see what happens, but even I’ll admit that my pastas are usually fairly impressive. But the fact that Josh has managed to make a meal for us, and get it ready ahead of time like this, is really touching to me. 

“I put it in just before I left to pick you up, so it’s about done. If you’re hungry, we can eat now.”

I turn into him and wrap my arms around him, sighing contentedly into his neck. “You’re the perfect man,” I mumble.

His arms slide around my hips, pulling me against him. “I just like you a whole lot.”

I laugh a little, pressing a quick kiss into his neck before I disentangle myself. “I need to change. I’m feeling pretty gross after all that traveling.” I reach down and grab my garment bag, but Josh picks up my suitcase before I get a chance. I smile at him wearily and head toward our bedroom, my body suddenly exhausted. Traveling on a nice plane is still traveling on a plane. It’s much more comfortable than most, but there’s still a limited amount of room to move and only so much you can spread out. You don’t let yourself think too much about it when you’re in the middle of it, but now that I’m finally home, it home feels like I’ve hit a brick wall. 

I drop my garment bag on the bed—a testament to just how wiped I am if I’m not unpacking right away—and pull off my suit jacket. Josh pulls it down my arms before I realize what’s happening, his hands going to my shoulders. I actually moan as his fingers dig into my sore muscles. “I’ll give you a year to stop that,” I whimper, leaning into his touch.

He chuckles a little, leaning in to kiss my neck. My eyes roll and my head tilts, giving him better access. His arms slide around my waist, holding me tight to his chest. The warmth of his body is just as soothing to my tired body as his magic fingers. “You should get cleaned up,” he whispers, his lips sucking carefully at my skin, “before I toss you on the bed and have my way with you.”

“Such a caveman,” I tease, turning my head so my lips can meet his for a few moments. Before I let myself get carried away, I pull out of his arms and kick off my shoes, then undo my pants and shove them down my hips as I head to the bathroom. I can hear Josh behind me actually picking up my clothes as I go, which somehow manages to make me love him more. Plus, it’s something I won’t have to do later.

I pull off my shirt as I walk into the bathroom, letting it dangle from my fingers as I take in the scene before me. I’d swear he was trying to seduce me.

“Babe?”

“Yeah?” He appears at my side instantly, like he was waiting for me to say something.

I glance around the room, making note of all the strategically placed unlit candles, the bottles of bath salts and bubbles, the big fluffy towels that I adore, before looking over at him. “You have big plans or something?”

He laughs and puts his hand on my waist, making my skin tingle. “I realize now how it looks, but I swear my intentions were altruistic. I know how you are after you get off a plane so I figured you’d want to wash up when you got home. I just wasn’t sure if you’d want to shower or take a bath, so I figured…I’d get it ready for both. One less thing for you, you know?”

I swear, if it was possible for a human to turn into a pile of goo, that’s what I’d be doing right now. “You’re amazing.”

He gives my hip a squeeze and I turn to him. His eyes travel slowly down my body, and it’s only at that moment that it occurs to me I’m standing there in just a bra and panties. His pupils dilate noticeably as he takes me in, and his words about breaking our bed tonight come back to me. Before I can say anything, though, he clears his throat and averts his eyes, glancing around the bathroom. “So, is this…I mean, do you…”

I wrap my arms around him, leaning my head against his shoulder. I can feel him react to the proximity of my almost naked body but he just holds me, leaning his cheek against the top of my head. “Thank you so much,” I whisper. 

“Hey, it’s no big deal,” he answers, and I can tell he suddenly feels self-conscious. It’s truly adorable how much he wants to do things—little, sweet things—for me and often for other people, and that he almost as often gets uncomfortable with the attention those actions can draw.

“It really is, though,” I mumble. 

“Then I’m glad you’re happy.”

I tighten my arms around him. I truly missed him the last week and a half. He’s pushy, he’s arrogant, he’s nosy, he hovers, he takes up most of the bed, he teases me incessantly, but I love him so much I can’t see straight. Sure, it’s nice to have some space from him once in a while, but on the whole, I just want to be around him. 

“I love you,” he tells me, giving me another squeeze, and I hold him tighter in response. 

“I think…I’m going to take a shower.”

“Okay.” I could be crazy, but I’m pretty sure there’s a hint of disappointment in his voice. 

“Just a quick one, because I think taking a bath after that would be heavenly, but only if I maybe had a companion.”

He pulls back, smiling down at me. “Yeah?”

“I mean, if you’re into it.” Josh isn’t exactly a fan of baths. He’s hardly a fan of showers. Not because he enjoys being dirty, but more because he feels like he has so much to do that some menial things just take up too much time. That said, once he’s in the shower, he tends to milk it for all it’s worth. If I’m in there with him, it can be hard to convince him to leave. To my knowledge, the only time he’s taken a bath since he was about five years old has been with me, and even that hasn’t been a regular occurrence. I don’t even get the luxury that often. Aside from being extraordinarily busy for the last decade or so, most tubs are not made for people my height. One of the biggest perks about moving in with Josh was that he actually has one of those monstrous bathtubs. Not an old-fashioned claw foot tub that I’ve always dreamed about, but it’s deep and long and the both of us can fit in with relative comfort.

“I’m into it,” he assures me, and I can’t help the grin that takes over my face. I stand up on tiptoe and press a quick kiss to his mouth.

“Give me five to ten minutes,” I whisper. “Let me get cleaned off and I’ll fill up the tub and we’ll let the bubbles take us away.”

“Okay.” He gives me another kiss. “I’ll go put away your clothes.”

I completely freeze as he starts to move away from me, my mouth falling open. “Josh, did you break something?”

He turns, cocking his head like a confused puppy. “Did I break something?”

“Did you forget something or lose a bet or did I land in an alternate universe?”

He makes a face at me, understanding what I’m getting at. “I can toss your dirty clothes into the laundry basket for you, you know. You don’t have to act like it’s something I never—yeah, I heard it. Look—I just want to make your life easier, so while you’re cleaning yourself, I’ll take care of some of this other stuff so you won’t feel like you have to before we go to bed tonight. Is that a crime?”

I bite the inside of my cheek to hold back my grin, wisely keeping my comments to myself. Instead, I just shake my head. “No crime at all. Thank you, honey.”

He nods, looking pleased with himself. I peel off my undergarments and toss them into the room before I shut the bathroom door. I can hear him make a noise but I turn on the water before I can hear if he makes any comment. I waste no time in adjusting to the water to as hot as I can stand it and climb in, moaning a little as it hits my tired muscles. I adjust myself, tilting my head back so the water can pelt down on my head. 

I stand there for several minutes, just feeling my body unwind a little.

It’s not that I mind traveling, or that I mind spending that kind of time with Mrs. Santos, or that being away from my boyfriend for a week and a half stresses me out…truthfully, I didn’t realize I was this bunched up until a couple of days ago, and I’ve been doing my best to ignore it since. This was just the first big trip the First Lady has done on her own since her husband took office, therefore it was my first trip alone as Chief of Staff. While there wasn’t nearly as much riding on it as there would be for the President, I still wanted to make sure that every single bit of it was successful, and that nothing we did would reflect badly on the administration. It certainly helps that neither of us are the type to go out and party and get sloppy drunk at some trendy club in Paris. Unless we had an event scheduled or were traveling, our evenings were spent tucked away in our hotels, usually going over the schedule for the next day or so before crashing for a few hours.

I pull myself out of my stupor and grab my shampoo, lathering up my hair. The less I dawdle, the sooner I can get to bath time with Josh. Still, I can’t entirely get my limbs to cooperate, feeling sluggish as I go through the motions of cleaning myself off. We managed to travel through a lot of time zones over the last ten days—more so than the end of the last campaign—and did it without getting a whole lot of actual sleep in between. Half the time, if I hadn’t already written down the time difference in each location compared to where we’d just been and also to what it was at home, I wouldn’t have known what time of day it was. Even now, it’s all just a blur.


	2. Chapter 2

I finally get myself clean and turn off the showerhead, letting the water swirl around the tub for a few moments before I put in the stopper. I step out and shiver, wrapping myself in a towel as I grab salts and bubbles to add to the water. If he’s willing to actually sit in the tub with me, it means Josh likely isn’t going to bitch and moan about smelling like a girl afterward, so I really could go all out. Then again, since he’s being so solicitous, maybe I shouldn’t torture the poor man too much. I’ve got plenty of stuff with more gentle aromas, so I just go with that. I look around at all the candles Josh put everywhere and it only takes a moment to decide that they’re not worth the effort. I light a few of the bigger ones and move them to places that’ll hopefully help us not trip over everything and break ourselves.

I stick my hand in the bathtub, decide it’s full enough, and twist the knobs. I open the bathroom door and stick out my head. “Josh.”

I’m not at all surprised when he shows up in about two seconds, wearing nothing but his undershirt and boxers. “You rang?” He frowns as he glances over me. “What’s with the towel?”

I just roll my eyes and grab his arm, pulling him into the room with me. “Just get in the tub.”

He eyes me suspiciously, like just because I’m wearing a towel I’m going to abandon him as soon as he’s sitting in the water, but dutifully pulls off his clothes and steps into the hot water. A shiver rushes through me at the sight of his naked form, my thoughts entirely impure as he slides into the bubbles. Before he can notice what I’m sure is a lust-filled look on my face, I turn off the overhead light, the candles casting everything in deep shadows. He holds out his hand and I drop my towel, stepping carefully into the tub, too. I sigh as the hot water hits me and I settle between his legs. His arms wrap around me, holding me to his chest possessively. All I can do is melt into him, molding myself to him as best as I can; I close my eyes and tilt my head back, letting it land on his shoulder. It’s such a contradiction to be so completely turned on by the naked man behind me while simultaneously so utterly exhausted that I feel like I could fall asleep in less than a minute sitting here like, but that’s my life in general.

“I missed you so much,” he whispers, his lips on my neck, though I’m not sure how much time has passed. The water’s still hot, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that I’d fallen asleep. 

I find one of his hands, threading my fingers through his and squeezing them tightly. “I missed you, too.” I turn my head awkwardly but he knows immediately what I’m going for and presses his lips to mine. My whole body tingles, and I’m a little amazed that after a year and a half together, kissing him still gives me a rush. “Thank you for thinking about this. Thank you for sitting here with me.”

“Hot, sexy, naked girlfriend in a bathtub—that’s a real tough sell,” he teases, kissing me again. He presses his face close to mine for a while and we just take each other in. It may be wildly unhealthy, but this is the longest we’ve been apart since I joined the Santos campaign. There have been a few trips since the President took office, but Josh hasn’t always been obligated to go, or at least not to spend the entire trip with him, or sometimes Mrs. Santos and I meet up with them during a trip, even if only for a day or two, not to mention that it’s rare for the President to be on a trip of any sort for that long. 

When it comes down to it, though, I could give a rat’s ass if anyone thinks we’re too dependent on each other. I’ve lived without him—I know I can do it. I was miserable, but I know I can do it. I’m a better person when I’m around him. I’m happier, I’m more productive, and I’m at peace with the world. He’s no different. It works for us.

“How was the trip?” he finally asks, kissing my temple before readjusting so his chin is on my shoulder.

“It was good. Hel—Mrs. Santos is really coming into her own as First Lady. She’s good with people, she’s good at public speaking, and it helps that she has something to say. She does her research and is usually more prepared for the event than she ever needs to be. She stops and talks to people which makes her detail antsy but it goes a hell of a long way with the people. She passionate about what she has to say—everyone can tell she’s not just blowing smoke up their asses. She wants to make a difference in the world and she has the format in which to do it. She may not have been thrilled with the idea of her husband as President a couple of years ago, but she’s completely embraced it now.”

His arms tighten around me. “Not at all the thing I should be focused on, but did you just call the First Lady ‘Helen’?”

I chuckle a little. “She really hates being called ‘ma’am,’ even more than being called ‘Mrs. Santos.’ She’s been verbally beating it out of me since the election and went into overdrive this past week. She threatened to get a water bottle and spritz me any time I called her something other than ‘Helen.’ I’ve been trying to work out ways to do both.” Truthfully, I don’t know if Helen Santos would have given me the time of day in years past—not that she’s a snob, but more that we might have thought we didn’t have much to say to each other. Then again, she’s been a stay-at-home mom for years, and sometimes I think she got a lot less respect in that role than I did as an assistant, so who knows. I would go so far as to say we’re almost friends by this point—“almost” only because I’ve been doing my best to keep our relationship professional as possible since the beginning. I wanted to give both her and myself credibility and didn’t know how much I could do that by being buddy-buddy with the First Lady. Our dynamic has changed in the last year and a half, though I think in a good way. She doesn’t pull any punches, but she doesn’t expect me to, either. She may not always like what I have to say but she’s always willing to hear it. But, we spend a lot of time together, especially since our positions are a lot less demanding than Josh and the President’s and they’re often working long, crazy hours. It’s something we’ve bonded over. She’s been lonely for friendship since the election between her friends from Texas not being able to get to DC a whole lot and some of them not being able to handle her new position, and I think I’ve filled that void for her. It’s not uncommon for her to call me for no reason to chat for a few minutes before going back to her life, which was disconcerting at first. Eventually, my stomach stopped dropping when her name would pop up on my cell phone during my downtime. Now that she’s managed to get me to call her Helen, though, I feel like it’s going to be all downhill from there. 

Not that it’s entirely a bad thing. Mrs. Santos— _Helen_ —is funny and smart and a wonderful person, and there are worse things she could call me than “friend.” My social life hasn’t exactly been booming lately, either, at least not in regards to things outside of relationship stuff. When I worked for Josh, I got along with most of the other assistants, and even though our free time was limited, we all understood what the job entailed and could bond over that, grabbing quick lunches or cups of coffee to commiserate. This whole Chief of Staff thing is an entirely different power dynamic for me. People work for _me_ now and they’re certainly nice enough, but none of them seem too interested in getting close—they all have their lives and apparently don’t want to hang around with their boss the way I used to. Annabeth and I have gotten pretty close, and though we don’t get to spend a lot of time together outside of work, it does happened once in a while and we usually have a good time. Lou is always nice—or at least her version of nice—but she works in the West Wing, and by extension for Josh, so she’s always busy, and her personal time is sacred. If she’s not at work, there’s a good chance no one will hear from her until it’s absolutely necessary. Of course, there’s Sam, who’s always been a good friend, but he and his fiancée have fallen into that category of “couple” friends, not to mention that they’re finally getting married in a few weeks, so spending time with one or both of them lately has been next to impossible. Josh and I actually spend a fair amount of downtime with the Santos’, eating dinner in the Residence, sharing a bottle of wine, watching an occasional movie, learning conversational Spanish—which I’ll admit has been fantastic—and hanging around with Peter and Miranda enough that they’ve started calling us “Aunt Donna” and “Uncle Josh.”

Overall, being able to call Helen Santos my friend isn’t the worst thing that could happen to me. Actually, it feels pretty nice. We can definitely understand each other in a way that a lot of other people wouldn’t be able to, and it turns out that we have a lot in common. We also just managed to get through ten days in close confines without killing each other—or even having anything more than normal disagreements—so that has to bode well for our future as comrades-in-arms.

Josh kisses my neck, pulling me back to him. “Sorry we had to pull Annabeth back before the trip was over.”

I shrug, trying to burrow myself further into his arms. “I don’t think it bothered her. She got to see most of the European leg and skip U.S. portion. Besides, most people rarely mind being tapped for West Wing stuff.”

He chuckles a little, the movement making the water slosh a little. “Well, we heard nothing but good things here.”

“Everyone we met seemed to respond really well to the First Lady. Like I said, she’s good with people. She doesn’t condescend, and she’s not afraid to admit when she doesn’t understand something, which I felt like went a long way with people. Honestly, if she were so inclined, she’d be a decent politician.”

“Already planning for six years down the road?”

“No, Mr. Cocky, and don’t jinx the next election.”

“Sorry. I’ll go outside and spit and turn around and whatever later.”

For someone who’s usually incredibly superstitious about anyone speaking out of turn in regards to election results, he’s being awfully blasé about assuming the President will win a second term. I’m going to have to chalk it up to the naked-in-a-tub thing.

“Besides,” he whispers in my ear, “I have someone even better in mind for next time.”

“Sam. I know already.”

“Nope,” he answers, kissing my earlobe, and I turn my head to look at him, my eyebrow arching.

“Who?”

He rubs his nose against mine. “Guess.”

He must be in some sort of pre-coital haze. “Me? You’re talking about me?”

“You’d be _amazing_ as President.”

I scoff and roll my eyes. “Let’s pretend for a second that I have those sorts of aspirations—there’s the fact that I’ve never held any sort of political office, not even student council in high school. Who’d vote for me? People don’t just wake up one morning and decide they want to be President and run.”

“I’m sure they actually do.”

“Okay, fine, they probably do, but they don’t _win_. Set your sites on someone who’s interested in the position if you want to put yourself through that sort of thing again.”

He shrugs, pressing a kiss to my jaw line. “If you say so. I think you could pull it off, though.”

Sighing, I just let it go. While I’d never consider anything completely outside the realm of possibility—if I did, I don’t think I’d be where I am now—President of the United States isn’t a title I think I’m interested in. It’s sweet that he thinks I could do it, though.

I turn, pressing my side to his chest, and he makes a little noise. Before I can ask, I feel him stiffening against my hip. He groans, his head falling back for a moment and I pause, waiting to see what his full reaction will be. Within moments, he’s more than half erect against me—I can only imagine when it happens that fast it can be painful—and he’s breathing deeply. When he finally opens his eyes, he just smiles, tightening his hold around me. He doesn’t have any expectations of dealing with his arousal at the moment, but he makes no apologies for it, either. Of course, I’d never want him to apologize for being turned on by me.

“Tell me more about the trip,” he finally says, his voice husky. It sends shivers racing down my spine but I try to control myself. We’ve had sex in the bathtub before and it’s more trouble than it’s worth. The amount of water we’ve had to clean up afterward has definitely ruined the moment, and put a damper on doing it very often. Because, of course, we’ve done it more than once. We can be more than a little oblivious when our hormones take over.

I shrug, trying to relax against him. “It’s still all kind of a blur right now. I made a lot of notes about everything and everywhere we went, but most of it feels like an out of body experience. I did get to see the Eiffel Tower, though.”

“What is it with women and the Eiffel Tower?”

“Probably because it’s phallic.”

He snorts, burying his face in my hair for a few moments as he laughs. “Touché.”

“We saw the Arc de Triomphe, too, but that was about all the time we had in Paris. We saw Westminster Abbey and Big Ben. No Stonehenge, though—not enough time.”

“So, you guys hit all the tourist spots?”

“Only when whatever officials or dignitaries we were with wanted to take us. Unfortunately, we didn’t get to Greece or Italy or Rome, because there are a lot of things I wouldn’t have minded seeing. Everything was amazing, though—there’s so much history, there, you know? It’s like you can feel it all around you. All the old things in America are new by their standards. I’ve never really been able to see any of it up close. It almost makes me wish we could have spent more time there so we could have taken it all in. I know that wasn’t the point of why we were there, but, you know, I’ve never really been to any of those places before. It was incredible.”

“I’ll take you there one day,” he says quietly, stroking his hand up and down my arm.

“Josh,” I protest. “That wasn’t what I was getting at.”

“I know. But, I want to take you anyway. It’s been a long time since I went anywhere overseas for something not work related, and I want to share it with you. We could spend longer in Paris, if you want, or we could go to Italy, track down your family tree and drink copious amounts of wine.”

“You’re such a sap,” I tease, snuggling against him a little more.

“Think about, hon—we could go all over the continent if we wanted. We could take a couple of weeks off—hell, we could probably take a month, and I’m sure we’d need it to get the full effect—and just get lost. We could be total tourists and go see the Mona Lisa, or we could find out where all the locals hang out and go there, and probably get the best parts of the culture. We could take the train across borders and put a million stamps in our passports.”

“Oh, baby…that sounds incredible, and unbelievably romantic, but…when on earth could we take an entire month off to go gallivanting across the globe? When could we even take two weeks? Midterms will be here before you know it, and then the President’s going to have to decide if he’s running again, and I’m sure he will be, and then we’ll be tied up for another four years.”

“Well, I suppose if we don’t win the next election, we’ll have plenty of time. And what’s to say we can’t do this after President Santos leaves office? I know it could be a ways off, but it could happen.”

I sigh and sit up, caressing his cheek fondly. “Josh, I know we haven’t really made any official decisions or plans for the future, but I’ve got to tell you that I can imagine that at least one of us will have a baby or two by that point.”

To his credit, only the faintest hint of panic flashes through his eyes. He just studies me quietly for a while before nodding slightly. “I guess dragging a couple of babies across Europe wouldn’t be practical.”

My heart flip flops around in my chest a little. “I think it’d be even worse if they were toddlers. I can’t imagine that tantrums and dirty diapers would add to the romance.”

He chuckles, leaning in to give me a kiss before pulling me back against his chest. “So, we’ll make time before then. I’m serious, though—I want to do this with you. I want us to have that experience.”

I can’t bring myself to say anything. I know he means it; I know he wants to do it, but I also know how incredibly unlikely the whole thing is. 

“We’ve sacrificed enough of our lives to the job, Donna,” he says, not surprisingly knowing what I’m thinking. “We deserve to do things for ourselves. Hell, if that means I or you or we don’t work for the President next term, then so be it. We can do good things in the private sector, too.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, okay?”

“The Europe bridge or the next term bridge?”

“Either of them. Both of them.”

“All right,” he answers after a beat, but I know him well enough to know this isn’t the only conversation we’re going to have about vacations and second terms. He’s just going to bide his time. “I love you,” he tells me out of the blue, kissing my forehead, and it’s enough to actually throw me for a small loop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad you guys are enjoying this so far. Don’t get too cozy. Seriously, I’m about to start venturing into the part where it just rambles and you’ll wonder why anyone would ever write this stuff down, never mind share it.
> 
> Also, this isn’t really a natural break in the story, but this chapter was getting really long, so the next one will pick up kind of in the middle of nowhere. I trust that you guys are savvy enough to not be flummoxed by my poor editing.


	3. Chapter 3

_“I love you,” he tells me out of the blue, kissing my forehead, and it’s enough to actually throw me for a small loop._

 

“So, ah, did you get a lot of work done without me here?”

“Eeuhh,” he says, making me laugh. “The President threatened to send me off to meet up with you.”

“Did you make a nuisance of yourself?”

“To put it mildly. I hardly came home while you were gone. I guess I sort of assumed that he’d be in the same boat as me and just want to throw himself into things to distract himself, but…I sort of forgot that he’d want to spend time with the kids, too.”

“Josh…what did you do?”

“Nothing to get me tossed in prison, I promise. I was just… _there_ all the time. You know, long before sunrise, well after midnight, constantly calling meetings, running back and forth to the Hill multiple times a day. I think everyone was willing to chip in to buy a plane ticket for me.”

Wrapping my arms around his torso, I shake my head. “You can’t go off the rails because I’m not here. You know that, right? You can make everyone miserable because you’re bored. And, you know, you should come home and sleep, too.”

“I don’t like it here without you.”

“I get that it’s different around here if one of us is away—”

“I mean, there’s nothing for me if you’re not here.”

I can’t help but start a little at his words. “Honey, that’s wildly unhealthy.”

“Don’t I know it? I used to be independent.” I tilt my head back at him, lifting an eyebrow. “I mean, sort of. At least, I could handle time on my own.” I scoff. “Kind of. I just felt like I was climbing the walls without you here. What was the point of coming home if you weren’t going to be here with me? Where’s the fun in that? It’s not even like I sleep better when you’re not here because I know for a fact that I don’t. I actually slept like garbage. The bed’s too big without you in it. The apartment is too quiet when it’s just me. So, I kept myself busy. I kept everyone else busy, too, it seems. I don’t handle life well if you’re not around to keep me sane.”

“Josh…it was ten days.”

“I’m not saying it’s logical. I’m not saying it’s good for me. All I can tell you is how I feel. I’ve been a general pain in the ass around the White House for the last week and a half, more so than usual, and more than one person had a countdown calendar of when you’d be back.”

“You worry me sometimes.”

“I really try not to. I tried to behave while you were gone. I think I did, too—I didn’t start any wars or cause international disputes or ruin trade negotiations. I just couldn’t handle time apart all that well this time.”

“What was different this time?” I ask, shaking my head a little. “I mean, other than it was a little longer than some other work trips…” He doesn’t say anything, though he tightens his grip around me, burying his face in my neck. I swear the hair on my arms goes up—something feels off suddenly. “Josh? What’s going on?”

He shakes his head, holding onto me tighter when I try to move away. He’s actually starting to scare me.

“Josh—talk to me. I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s bothering you.”

He kisses my neck, and I can feel him let out a long breath. “It’s just…this time of year. You know…Memorial Day.”

I crinkle my forehead, trying to piece together what he’s saying. It’s already the first week of June—what’s he talking about Memorial Day? It takes my brain a few long seconds to start to connect the dots. “Oh, God…oh, honey, I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about…you know, I don’t really remember a lot of what happened.”

“That’s, you know, that’s probably for the best,” he answers, his entire body tensing up. “It was…kinda…horrible.”

My heart goes out to him—it really does. I understand completely what it must have been like for him to find out that I’d been in car that’d been blown up. It probably wasn’t that different than when I found out he’d been shot. It’s like the world stopped. Nothing else mattered. Until I knew he was going to make it, I couldn’t bring myself to care about anything. He and I haven’t really talked about what happened to him when I was in Gaza. Back when it first happened, he avoided the topic like the plague, and after I quit working for him a couple of years ago, I guess I never really thought about bringing it up. He hasn’t mentioned it. It wasn’t even an issue last year. 

“Josh? What was so different about this year? I don’t remember you getting upset last Memorial Day.”

He shrugs, his entire body still tense. “Something about you being overseas this time, I guess. I don’t know. I just know I realized what weekend it was and it just…hit me like a ton of bricks. It didn’t matter that I talked to you every day, or that you were nowhere near Gaza, or even that I knew that you were, without a doubt, all right. All I could think about…” he pauses, shuddering from head to toe.

I shift and turn around in his arms, climbing onto his lap and wrapping myself around him. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

He makes a noise like a strangled laugh. “Isn’t that, like, the exact opposite of what you should be telling me? Shouldn’t we talk about it?”

I play with the hair at the back of his neck, trying to find the right words. “We probably should talk about it at some point. There are a lot of things we should probably talk about more than we do, but…maybe not this moment. I mean, if you really want and need to, we’ll do it. We’ll talk about it right here and right now.”

He pauses, chuckling a moment later as he looks at the position of our bodies. “Well, maybe not right _now_.”

I pinch the back of his neck lightly. “Don’t be a pig.”

His lip quirks up a little. “Sorry. I’m easily distracted.”

“Josh…”

His fingers slide over my hips, only holding onto me gently. “Now’s probably not the time.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah…yeah. Now’s not the moment. We should talk about it at some point, but I don’t want to make tonight about that. I just got myself worked up over it, and finally having you home has unhinged me a little. I really just want to enjoy you being here. I might be a little more handsy than usual, but I promise it’s only because I need to reassure myself that you’re whole.”

I run my hands through his hair a few times, searching his eyes. It doesn’t seem like he’s lying to me about this; I don’t think he really even wanted to mention it. If he just wants to let it go for now, we can do that. At least now I know it’s on the table for us to talk about at some point. That’s a step in the right direction. I press my lips to his forehead and sigh, closing my eyes. While there are a lot of things that happened to me as a result of that trip three years ago, the trauma of the actual event isn’t something I’ve had to live with. I remember getting in the car and then…not much. Sometimes I think I remember a bright light, which I guess would be the explosion, but I can’t say for certain. I don’t remember being airlifted to Germany, and I only vaguely remember parts about the hospital. I have a few clear recollections of conversations with Josh, and that Colin was there, but until everything started to wear off after the emergency surgery, it’s all kind of a blur. Apparently, according to the therapist I saw on and off after the event, that’s not terribly unusual. I will probably never remember a lot of it, and I’m good with that. There are some things I don’t ever want to relive, and being bombed is definitely one of them.  
I can feel his muscles relaxing bit by bit, though—maybe he really was just having a moment. Maybe all he needed to do was put it out there so he could feel a little better for right now. 

“I love you,” he whispers, pulling me tightly against his chest. I nod and tighten my grip in response.

“I love you, too.” I kiss his forehead again then lean down and kiss his lips, lingering there for a few long moments. “What do you say we get out of here before I’m completely waterlogged?”

“You sure you don’t want bathtub sex?” he asks, though his tone is teasing.

“Only if you’re volunteering to clean up the mess after.”

He pauses and I lean back, amused by the train of thought I can see running across his face. Eventually, though, he shakes his head. “It really is a pain in the ass to clean up all that water.”

I nod, giving him another kiss before I push myself off his lap and stand. “There are some things are better left to the imagination.” I step onto the bathmat and grab a dry towel, completely aware that although he’s still in a vaguely melancholy mood, he can’t take his eyes off my ass. He’s a strange man, Josh Lyman, and it’s endlessly fascinating that he can be on the couch, sulking over the Mets losing, or something that actually matters, and actively looking down my shirt at the same time. It does, however, usually make it easier to pull him out of a bad mood. I don’t even have to do anything half the time. I just let him ogle whatever he needs to ogle, he feels better about the world, and I usually feel pretty good about myself, too, knowing that even the most innocent glimpses of my body can do that to him.

The water sloshes behind me, the drain gurgling a moment later as he pulls the plug, and I hold another towel over my shoulder. Once he takes it, I grab the damp towel from earlier and squeeze my hair, trying to get it as dry as possible. I really ought to blow dry it, but that feels like a lot of effort at this point.

Before he can get very far, I turn and wrap my arms around his shoulders, smiling up at him gratefully. “Thank you for doing this with me.”

He grins broadly, deep dimples forming in his cheeks. “Anything to be close to you,” he whispers. My heart flutters a few times before melting into a puddle of goo.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

He nods, squeezing me gently. “I’m good. You’re here, you’re whole. I’m good.” He clears his throat then, looking away as his cheeks turn just the lightest shade of pink. He busies himself with picking up the bathmat and tossing my shower towel toward the hamper. “Why don’t we eat, if you’re up for it. Unless you’re too tired, then we can wait.”

“I could handle some food,” I tell him. “I’m excited to see what you’ve made for us.”

“Don’t get too excited,” he scoffs, ushering me into our bedroom. “I was aiming for palatable.”

“You really know how to rev a girl’s engine, Josh,” I tease, almost swooning all over again as I see pajamas laid out on the bed for me. He’s really pulling out all the stops tonight. I look over to find him grinning almost bashfully. Almost. He’s mostly trying to cover up the fact that he feels incredibly smug for thinking this far ahead. “Did you also pick out my underwear?” I ask, batting my eyes.

“I was kinda hoping you wouldn’t need it,” he answers, leering at me playfully.

I can’t help but shudder a little. “Know your audience, babe. You know commando’s not my thing.”

“A guy can dream, right?”

I roll my eyes as I go to my underwear drawer, poking around until I find something that’s between scandalous and sloppy, enjoying myself as he visibly drools when I drop my towel to pull them on. I give him an added bonus as I bend over to pick up the towel, and he makes a noise that sounds like a whimper. Even if his mood from earlier hasn’t completely dissipated, I’m glad that I can distract him from those thoughts for a few moments. 

When I make my way back to the bed, I let out a little noise of my own at the t-shirt he picked out for me—one of his old ones from college. No—the _oldest_ one. The one that was part of his freshman orientation package. Threadbare maroon, softer than butter, and the “Harvard” on the front of it so faded that it’s almost indistinguishable. I’ve been pilfering it regularly since we got together. Even though, since getting together with Josh, I usually sleep in a tank top, or no top at all, depending on how warm it is, this is my absolute favorite shirt to lounge around in. Unfortunately, he still loves the shirt, too. I think he’s proud that it still fits after all these years, and I can understand that—it’s close to thirty years old. At first, I would tease him about how it was almost the same age as me, but he threatened to take away my t-shirt privileges permanently, so I stopped. I think that age gap thing freaks him out sometimes.

I stroke the shirt lovingly for a few moments before I clutch it to my chest. “Really?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles good-naturedly. “It’s your turn.” Sadly, we do sort of keep track of who’s been wearing it most recently. He’s resigned himself to the fact that it’s never going to be entirely his again, and I’ve behaved myself and haven’t hidden it somewhere he can’t find it.

I pull it over my head before he can change his mind, reveling in the feel of old, broken-in cotton against my skin. “Thank you,” I answer with a sigh, bringing the tattered neck of it to my nose and taking a deep sniff. Another one of the things I love about this shirt is that no matter how many times it’s been washed, no matter how often I’ve worn it, it always smells vaguely of Josh. I don’t know that he has any other article of clothing that can do that.

I grab the oversized flannel pajama pants and drag them on, rolling the waistband down a few times until they feel manageable. Truthfully, I’m not sure who these pants actually belong to. Neither of us can remember buying them, and they’re actually big on both of us. We both wear them from time to time because they’re so warm and comfy, but…we really don’t know. I do know that I really like having a boyfriend that’s not terribly different in size than me so that we can do dumb things like share pajamas and t-shirts. 

I watch as Josh goes back into the bathroom, blowing out the candles as he pulls his own shirt on over his head. I wrap my arms around him as he comes back into the room, pushing myself up to the balls of my feet so we’re face to face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He smiles gently, kissing the tip of my nose. “Yes. You’re home, you’re safe, and I definitely overreacted to your absence.”

“Josh,” I whisper, and he presses a kiss to my lips this time.

“Seriously. I’m okay. I’m just glad you’re here.”

I take him in for a few moments, but he seems sincere, so I decide to let it go for now. I give him another kiss and disentangle myself, following him down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another little installment. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Fun fact; I think I started working on this around Memorial Day, and it's taken me this long to get it to a point where I want to post it.


	4. Chapter 4

“Tell me honestly—do you like it?”

“Josh,” I say around a mouthful of food, “for the tenth time, it’s delicious. I’m not going to eat something gross just to stroke your ego.” I chew a few more times and swallow. “Your head is already big enough—it doesn’t need more help from me.”

“You’re not gonna stroke my ego?” he asks, sticking out his lower lip.

I eye him carefully before putting my plate on the coffee table, then lean in slowly, putting my lips almost directly on his ear. “It’s not your ego that I want to stroke.”

He shivers and nudges me away gently. “Don’t be cruel.” I just laugh a little and pop in the last bite of chicken on my plate.

“Seriously, Josh—it was really good. You get to be in charge of dinner all the time now.”

“Let’s not get crazy here,” he protests, looking genuinely distraught.

“No, really. You think you don’t have a knack for this sort of thing, but…damn. This is tasty.”

“Donna,” he whines, flopping his head back against the couch, looking truly pathetic.

“What? I’m supposed to carry on with cooking our meals until eternity? The little woman in the kitchen while you get to reap the benefits?”

His eyes get huge, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to figure out how to answer me. “Wha—no! I didn’t…uh…”

I can’t torture the poor guy. He’s had a rough week, and I know he’s not really a misogynist. “I’m kidding, honey. You know I don’t mind doing most of the work.”I lean in toward him, angling my head a little, and he responds automatically, giving me a kiss. I can feel his entire body sag in relief as I let him off the hook. “I’m a better cook than you are anyway.”

He sits back, looking genuinely offended. “I don’t know that I’d say that.” I pull back from him then, leaning against the arm of the couch. “No, you’re right. I’d definitely say that.” I roll my eyes, but don’t resist as he pulls me back against his side. “I’d do anything for you,” he says quietly, pressing his lips to the top of my head. “I will happily cook for us from now until I’m dead if that’s what I need to do. All the cooking, cleaning, laundry, whatever needed to be done to take care of you, to take care of us. Doesn’t matter why—if you just woke up and decided there were things you didn’t want to do, I’d do it all. This is coming out all wrong, isn’t it?”

I laugh a little, wrapping my arm around his stomach. “A little, but I know what you’re trying to say, and thank you. I’d do the same, too, you know.”

“Hell, Donna, you already take care of me. You always have and we both know it. I wouldn’t have survived this long if you weren’t around to make sure I did basic things like shower and eat.”

I wish that weren’t true, but there have been a lot of times over the last ten years when I’ve had to shove food at him and watch him eat, or personally escort him to his car so that he’d go home and rest for a little while. 

I give him another squeeze before I push myself away, bracing myself to stand up, a task that suddenly seems daunting.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, putting a hand on my wrist.

“Gotta clean up,” I answer, looking at him in confusion.

“I’ll do it. You just got home—sit down and relax.” I open my mouth to protest, but he’s already on his feet, grabbing our plates and silverware.

“I appreciate everything you’re doing, Josh,” I call after him, “but you don’t have to wait on me hand and foot just because I’ve been gone a few days.”

“I know I don’t _have_ to,” he answers over the sound of him putting everything in the dishwasher. “But I want to, so deal with it.”

“Yes, sir!” I settle back against the couch at that, smiling to myself. I certainly won’t stop him if he wants to.

“Ooh, I like the sound of that,” he teases, making more noise than he probably ought to, and I try not to stress out about what sort of mess he’s probably making right now. I really should give him more credit, though—he’s a grown man that managed to live on his own for years before I came along, and the worst that ever happened was that he ran out of food. He can handle loading a dishwasher without me going behind him to “fix” it.

“Just don’t get used to it.”

There’s silence for a moment, and I look over my shoulder toward the kitchen and watch his head pop out of the doorway. “Will you call me ‘sir’ in bed?”

I hate myself, but I feel a thrill run through my body. “If you play your cards right.”

His eyebrows jump up, but he only chuckles. “You want something to drink? Wine?”

“Beer would be good.” He nods and disappears back into the kitchen, rattling around in the fridge. “I know it sounds pretentious, but I think the wine I had in France spoiled me for wine anywhere else.”

He reappears, handing me a bottle of beer over the back of the couch before moving to sit beside me. “Yeah—you _do_ sound pretentious.”

I make a face and kick at him, though I don’t put any effort into it. “Rude.”

“So, I guess that means you’re not interested in exploring a local vineyard at some point, like maybe even this weekend?”

I pause in my sip of beer, staring at him like he’s grown a second head. “Would _you_ be interested in that?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”

It takes every ounce of strength I have not to reach out and feel his forehead. “ _You_ want to go to a vineyard?”

“Don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, of course I do. You know I do.” While I haven’t been actually hinting to him that it’s something we should do, mostly because it seems like the sort of thing he’d hate, I know I frequently lament about how we live so close to so many of them and never get a chance to visit, or even drive by. “But…that’s not something I’d want you to do.”

He actually looks hurt. “You don’t want me to go with you?”

“That’s not at all what I’m saying. I just didn’t think it was something you’d want to do.”

“Hey, I like wine.”

“I know.”

“I like nature.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I’m a fan of the outdoors.”

“You’re really not, Josh.”

“Well, I don’t think there’s much of exploring the wild involved with wineries. I’m probably safe.”

All I can do is stare at him in wonder. “I really never thought that was something…”

“I never thought about it, not before you started talking about how there were a bunch around here. And, Donna, there are a lot of vineyards not too far from here. Probably a couple dozen within an hour no matter which way you go.”

“You’ve put thought into this?”

“Some. Even more so the last week. I’ve had a lot of time on my hands. We could hop on 66 and see what’s out there, or head to Loudon County. If we’re feeling really ambitious, we can go toward the general Richmond area, because I know there are a bunch in that direction, too.”

I can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm, though it’s tinged with a little sadness. “What if there’s a national emergency and the President needs you back here?”

“Then we’d leave and come home.” He reaches out, running his fingers through my hair. “Like I said; we can’t put our lives on hold just in case something comes up. We’ve done that enough.”

I lean into his touch, letting my eyes fall shut for a few moments. There have been so many things over the last ten or so years that didn’t get to happen because something has come up with work. Granted, it’s not been the typical sort of work environment where it feels ridiculous to have to work the weekend—the nation doesn’t just shut down because the White House staff needs a couple of days. 

“Let’s just play it by ear,” I finally say, opening my eyes. “It sounds fantastic, but so does sitting around here in my pajamas for the next three days.”

He smiles and nods, giving my head a couple of gentle scratches. “I can live with that.” He pulls at me a little and I take the hint, putting my beer on the coffee table before I crawl across the couch, both of us rearranging ourselves until he’s sprawled on his back and I’m cuddled against him. 

I feel like I could stay here forever. His body is warm and solid beneath mine; his clean scent surrounds me. His heart thumps steadily beneath my ear. This would probably be a terrible position for him if I fell asleep right now—I know my body would turn into complete dead weight—but it’s so comfortable that I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to move.

“So, I’ve been doing some thinking,” he tells me, his voice rumbling through his chest.

“That sounds dangerous.”

He gives me the lightest of pinches before wrapping his arms securely around me. “Well, it seems that, technically, the easiest way to do this is to refinance the apartment, but since we’re about two years at the most from paying it off, I don’t know if I want to go that route.”

I lift my head, wrinkling my brow in confusion. “You lost me, Josh. Easiest way to do what?” He sounds like he’s picking up the middle of a conversation, but it’s no conversation I remember being part of.

“Oh! Sorry. Adding your name to the mortgage. It seems the only way to do that would be to refinance the whole thing, and I’d rather not do that at this point. Like I said, we’re so close to being done with paying for this place that it seems stupid to refinance when it’ll probably wind up costing us more.”

This is definitely pulling me out of my sleepy haze, though I still have no idea what’s going on. “What’re you talking about?”

“I _did_ find out, though, that we can get your name put on the deed, and that’s basically the same thing.”

I push myself most off him, trying to figure out what he’s getting at. “Josh…why would you—what?”

“This is your place, too, Donna. You’ve paid into it. I don’t want it to be questioned.”

I retreat to the other end of the couch, rubbing my eyes. “Josh, I’ve lived here for a year and a half, and part of that time, you wouldn’t take rent or anything from me. This is your place. _You’ve_ paid for it.”

“It’s _our home_ ,” he insists, sitting up against the corner of the couch.

“Yeah, sure, but…”

“But what?”

“It’s _your_ apartment.”

“It’s _our_ apartment.”

“Not in the way you mean.”

“In every way.”

“You can’t put my name on the deed to the place!”

“Why the hell not?”

“How could you not understand what a bad idea this is? Josh, what if something happens between us?”

A pained look comes over his face. “Why would anything happen between us?”

I’ll admit, just the thought of not being with Josh feels like a punch in the stomach. “No, it won’t. But, you’ve got to think about that. Say you add me to the apartment and something _did_ happen, Then we’d have to…split it somehow, or sell it, and…”

“Donna, if I did something horrible enough to make you want to leave me, nothing I have would be worth keeping.”

He _would_ say something like that. “Why are you pushing this?” I ask weakly.

“Pushing what?”

“Giving me access to everything. Putting my name on your bank accounts. You’re not being very smart about this stuff, you know.”

He reaches out, tentatively putting his hand on my ankle. “I just want to share my life with you.”

Tingles of every kind—happy, nervous, scared, thrilled—run through me. “You have. You _are_. That doesn’t mean you hand over the keys to your identity.”

“The hell does that mean?”

What the hell _does_ that mean? Why is all this so unnerving? “It’s not like—you’re not—we’re not even married. You’re talking about doing stuff that married couples do.”

He gives me an odd look. “I don’t think it’s only married people who buy houses together and have joint bank accounts.”

“We’re not buying a house, though—that’d be entirely different. We’re talking about the apartment that you’ve lived in for over twenty years. We’re also _not_ talking about chump change. You have… _healthy_ bank accounts. Money you’ve earned, invested, and inherited. We’re not two people starting out in life with nothing to our names. You actually need to protect yourself.”

“From you?” he asks, looking slightly amused.

“Yes. From me, from anyone who might try to abuse your kindness.”

“You’re being a little ridiculous about this.”

“Thank you for calling me ridiculous.”

“We’re gonna get married at some point, though, right? I mean, we’ve talked about this before. That’s where all this is going?”

“Well…yeah.”

“So, when we’re married, these are all the things you’d expect us to do?”

“Josh, I have _no_ expectations of what married life would be. I guess I thought that’d be something we’d figure out along the way.”

He rolls his eyes, looking only a little frustrated. “But, theoretically, these are the sorts of things you think married people would do?”

I shrug, my mouth flapping for a few seconds. “I…guess.”

“So, if we both know we’re going to get married at some point, what does it matter if we do this now or then?”

“You’re just bound and determined to…give away the milk, aren’t you?”

He stops, staring at me in complete silence for a good ten seconds. “’Give away the milk’? What is that—some kind of Midwestern thing?”

I shake my head, irritated. “No, it’s that expression—no one’s going to buy the cow if you’re giving away the milk for free. You’re just giving away all your milk.”

He looks positively amused now, much to my annoyance. He leans in close to me, putting his hands on my knees. “I thought that expression about the dangers of pre-marital sex. Let me assure you, though, that I definitely intend to the buy the cow.” I feel my eyebrows go up and he has the good grace to look slightly contrite. “That didn’t come out how I meant it.”

I laugh a little, putting my hand over his. “I just think you need to be smart about this.”

“What’s smarter than the woman I love more than life itself, the person I trust more than anyone else in the world, sharing this stuff with me?”

“People you trust can betray you. It happens all the time. Believe me, I know.”

He sighs, closing his eyes for a few moments. “Donna…look, I get it. You have lingering trust issues. But it happened _to_ you—you weren’t the one that screwed him over. He did that to you. Are you worried about me making the same mistake you did?”

I suppose I never thought of it that way, but that seems to make an odd sort of sense. I _don’t_ want him to be naïve like I was. I don’t want him to give up his life, his entire identity, for another person, even if that person is me. “Maybe a little.”

He gives me a quick kiss, smiling reassuringly. “I am being smart about this, you know. Despite how it seems to you, these aren’t things I’m going into lightly. I’ve spoken to my lawyer about it.”

“Okay, moneybags, but not all of us can afford to have a lawyer on retainer. Some of us have to wing it.”

“I don’t have a lawyer on retainer, thank you very much. He works at my dad’s firm; I’ve known him for a long time. He doesn’t mind giving me advice, especially if it’s about something that even vaguely concerns my father. You know what he said when I mentioned that I was thinking about putting your name on the apartment?”

“Unless he was telling you what a horrifically bad idea all of this is, I can’t even begin to imagine.”

“He said, ‘Donna? The one your dad liked?’”

I freeze, completely in shock. “What?”

He just smiles. “Yeah.”

“But…I never met your father.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t know him at all.”

“Apparently, you talked to him on the phone a couple of times.”

“Well, yeah, sure, but that was just when I’d answer your phone and was relaying messages between the two of you. We didn’t have any real conversations.”

“Whatever it was, it was enough.”

“It was just a little over a month, though! I didn’t work for you that long before he…he…”

“Died,” Josh finishes for me, squeezing my knee again. “It’s okay to say it.”

“How could he have _liked_ me? There’s no way…”

“I can only tell you what I was told. Hell, my mom didn’t tell me about it for years, either. I guess you made an impression on him, though, because he’d mention the new woman I had working with me on the campaign—and that part was important. He always said you worked with me and not for me. To anyone who’d listen he’d talk about the chutzpah you had—to the people at work, to mom, probably even people on the street.”

“But…” My head is swimming right now. I don’t know if I can process this.

“In fairness, it seems I talked about you a lot then, too. I didn’t realize it, but I guess I constantly had a new Donna story for my parents, so between that and whatever it was you said to him when you were on the phone, he thought the world of you. That’s what Mom told me, I guess when she’d reached a point when stories about Dad weren’t as painful to tell. She said that half the times he called me, he was really hoping to talk to you. Maybe you said more than you realized. Maybe what you said spoke volumes. I don’t know—I’ll never know. I just know that he thought you were special, and he wanted the world to know about it.”

I feel a couple of tears leak out of my eyes. Josh looks a little misty, too, though. “I had no idea. Are you sure you’re not making this up?”

“I promise you, I’m not. I had no idea that he’d mentioned anything about you to the people he worked with, not until a few days ago. I only knew what he’d said to my mom. I don’t think he mentioned anything about you being his future daughter-in-law, or us getting married. He just really liked you.”

“I…I really don’t know what to say. I never imagined that…” I try to swallow around the lump in my throat. “That I’d made that sort of impression on your father.”

“Granted, I’m sure that if he’d had the chance to get to know you a bit more, and definitely if he’d been able to meet you, he would have been making those sorts of comments. He was a bigger yenta than my mother could ever hope to be. He was proud of what I was doing with my life, but he made no secret about the fact that he wanted grandkids. He and my mother would have been in full-on _Fiddler on the Roof_ mode.”

It takes me a second, but I think I finally catch on. “You mean that whole ‘Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match’ thing?”

He grins and nods. “Yeah, exactly. So, my lawyer didn’t think this was some colossally bad idea. Anyone who had the Noah Lyman stamp of approval is good enough for him.”

“So…your lawyer told you to just go ahead and sign over half of everything to your girlfriend? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“No, of course not. He said, if I was serious about you, it was something worth discussing with you. He said we should talk about our options.”

“This is your idea of a talk?”

“It would be if you didn’t get weird every time I bring up ways to combine our lives.”

I shake my head and grab my forgotten beer, taking a long pull.

“Donna, all I did was mention that we could put your name on the deed here, that way it could be your place, too.”

“But…we live here together. It is _our_ place.”

He moves closer to me, taking the beer out of my hand and taking a sip, too, ignoring his own on the coffee table. “I don’t know how to say this so that it comes out the way I need it to. Yes, you live here, too. Yes, it’s our place—it’s our _home_. But, legally, it’s not. If something were to happen to me, where would that leave you?”

I shudder and close my eyes, trying not to think of something so horrible. “Are you planning on something happening to you?” I manage to ask weakly.

“Of course not. Who does? We know better than most people, though, how fast life can change.”

“Is this because you’re having bad memories of me in Gaza?”

“No—I’d been thinking about this for a while. You being overseas just exacerbated it.”

“Josh, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I? Didn’t you tell me how after Dr. Freeride broke up with you, you had nowhere to live because his name was on the lease, not yours?”

My stomach knots up a little at the memory of my stupidity. “Yeah.”

“I don’t ever want the possibility of that happening to you again. I have no intention of breaking up with you or kicking you out, but I want you to be covered just in case anyway. Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it, right?”

I bury my face in my hands for a few moments, trying to compose myself. Am I really still holding onto this stuff? It was more than ten years ago and that relationship is still casting shadows on things. After all this time, I’m still letting that guy dictate my life. I’m sure some of my issues and insecurities are strictly my own, but there’s no getting around how long a bad relationship can affect everything else in your life, including the good stuff. Especially the good stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire story, and definitely parts of this chapter, are littered with pieces of my head cannon, some of which I’ve written down and will get around to typing up and posting eventually. I don’t think there’s anything that doesn’t make sense, but I know there’s some stuff that’ll be explained in greater detail at some other point, for those playing the home game.
> 
> I wanted to be able to get the concept of Josh’s father in here but put a slightly different spin on it, just to mix it up a bit.
> 
> There’s an ep by ep challenge going on at ff dot net—basically to find a way that Josh and Donna could be together/get together/that sort of thing every episode of the series. I highly recommend that everyone go and read those stories (I have a couple there, too!) and maybe submit something yourself? It’s really kind of fun to try to push yourself into doing something different.
> 
> Also…I told you guys this was going to get ridiculous. Didn’t I say it?


	5. Chapter 5

_“I don’t ever want the possibility of that happening to you again. I have no intention of breaking up with you or kicking you out, but I want you to be covered just in case anyway. Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it, right?”_

“Can I think about it?” I finally ask.

He puts his hands on my knees, squeezing me gently. “God, Donna, yes, of course, think about it. I guess it’s a big thing, and I’ve been thinking about it for a while so I have a head start. We can talk about the pros and cons and all that if you want. And, you know, there are other ways to do this, of course. People can just make agreements about this stuff—just, like, verbal pacts, or we could actually get something notarized if that make you feel better.” He pauses and I finally look up at him; the expression on his face is earnest. “It’s just that…you’ve made this place a home, Donna. It went from being somewhere I’d shower and nap to a…a home. Seriously, that’s all because of you. This is where we live instead of where I just stay. Look around! This is our place.”

Instinctively, I glance around the apartment, and I can sort of see what he means. 

…Okay, I can really see what he means. Just looking at the living room area, it’s a completely different place than it was a year ago. Josh’s apartment was always lovely and well put together, but it didn’t feel lived in, which is a neat trick when you consider how long he’s been here. He had personal touches here and there, but even the mantle full of framed photographs felt…insincere. The walls had a few pieces of art, but they were strategically placed and looked like nothing Josh would ever care about. The only thing that ever really felt like him was the piles of work filling almost every flat surface. Now, the mantle still has pictures on it, but they’re pictures that mean something—pictures of Josh’s family, and some of my family, and a few from our first time in the White House. The walls are slowly but surely being filled with pieces of art that appeal to the both of us. The couch is one we picked out together—big, comfortable, and unfortunately easy to fall asleep on—and is littered with assorted throw pillows, as well as a blanket draped over the back. Those are definitely from me. The hardwood floors have light-colored area rugs to help brighten up the place, and the dark drapes that used to cover the windows have been replaced with lighter colors, making the room seem larger and more open. The bookshelves are even more crammed than they used to be, only now they’re not organized by size and color, but look more like people read the books there and put them away by series or author. Most of those shelves have frames on them, too, though mostly filled with pictures of the two of us. I will admit to being the culprit with most of those. Josh doesn’t at all complain about them, but if left up to him, he’d have nothing but pictures of me. I know because he’s tried.

Speaking of…my eyes focus on a larger framed picture right on the center shelf. Hiding in plain sight. I rub my forehead again before giving Josh a look. He looks at me defiantly, knowing I’ve found the picture again, and that the battle continues. “You’re really not helping your case here, honey.”

“It’s a great picture of you.”

“Josh, we’ve talked about this.”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “No, we haven’t. Every time I put it out here somewhere, you move it back into the spare room or something.”

“It’s a giant picture of _me_ ; it’s a little weird to look at it all the time.”

“Not for me it isn’t. And it’s not giant.”

I flop back against the couch, taking a long sip of my beer. “Josh…”

“You’re gonna have to live with it. I love that picture. You look gorgeous. I brought it back out here so I could see your face while you were gone. You were in Vogue, Donna. I’m not going to get over it any time soon.”

“It was a year ago, Josh, and you don’t have to get over it—but do we need to have an excessively large picture of it in our living room?”

“First, it’s not excessively large, and second…yes.”

“You’re ridiculous. You’re ridiculous about everything.”

“Only about you. For the record, though, most people aren’t in Vogue even once, so it’s kind of a big deal.”

“How many magazines have you been in?”

“Donna...”

I don’t answer, mostly because the Vogue thing still weirds me out. Even now, with copies of that issue and the actual pictures taken scattered around the apartment, it’s very surreal. It’s not even like I was in the article on my own—hell, if it’d just been me, it never would have happened, and I _never_ would have been on the cover if it didn’t include the First Lady. Annabeth, too. 

Naturally, photographers and reporters from every sort of paper and magazine covered the Inauguration last year—each Inauguration is covered extensively by the press. When she wasn’t with her husband, Mrs. Santos tended to stick close to me or Annabeth, which was fine and understandable. As it happened, then, the three of us were captured in a lot of pictures together. Again, understandable. But when that happened, it became glaringly obvious that we’d coordinated our gowns for the evening and had gone with the patriotic theme. It’d been Annabeth’s idea, but Mrs. Santos really liked it, and since it didn’t seem like we could go wrong with red, white, and blue, we ran with that theme. We even drew straws to see who would wear each color, and it worked out that Annabeth was in white, Mrs. Santos was in blue, and I wound up in red. White for Helen would have been deemed too virginal by the press, and it would have looked “suspicious” on me, what with my, at that point, new relationship with Josh. If Mrs. Santos had been wearing red, it probably would have been seen as a political statement and caused some sort of uproar that she was blatantly wearing the color of the Republican Party. At any rate, the media seemed to love it, and the next day, there were far too many pictures of the three of us in our patriotic getup with comments about our All-American blonde hair and blue eyes—though Josh noted that made us more Aryan than All-American, and he said that my eyes were rarely “just blue.”

Still and all, it was entertaining and only slightly overwhelming to see our faces in so many different publications at once, though at least we were having a good time in the pictures and not embarrassing the country so early on…then _Vogue_ called. 

I genuinely thought it was a prank, especially since we’d only been in office for about twenty hours at that point, and because I’d fallen for the fake magazine interview thing back when the Bartlet administration was first taking office, I wasn’t about to take any chances. It didn’t take too long to confirm that it was the real deal, though, and that they wanted to do an interview. I figured it’d be good press for the First Lady and that it’d really make the last few stragglers forget about the thong and tramp stamp incident, make the world see she was a regular person that did the same things—like wear underwear and get tattoos—that everyone else does. It turned out that they wanted the three of us, in our patriotic Inaugural gowns, all blonde-haired and blue-eyed. I thought it was going to be a fluff piece and was all set to turn them down, but when we met with their people, they said they wanted to talk about the challenges the new administration was facing, how relatively young we all were and how that changed the perspective, things like that. Even after all that, I still figured we’d get shot down after running it by the West Wing…turns out, they thought it was a great idea.

So, within a week, the whole thing had been set up. We were hauled off to a space they’d rented out instead of using the White House. We had our gowns back for a few hours. We had hair and makeup done by _Vogue_ professionals. We had massive lighting rigs and extreme looking cameras pointed at us. We had people posing us, telling us to tilt our heads, angle our bodies, arch our backs, slump our shoulders, smile more, smile less, and that was just in the morning. In the afternoon, they took us to a playground and posed us on and near an old swing set. I’m still not sure what they were going for with that, but we were told that it’d be a “great contrast.” They did show us pictures as they were taking them, and they somehow managed to make the cold, bright afternoon look dark and stormy, and I’ll admit that the pictures looked interesting. In between all that, they asked questions for the article, not focusing on the First Lady nearly as much as I’d anticipated and hoped. The entire day was a blur, and I was more exhausted after that than half my days campaigning. I’d never given much thought to modeling before that moment, but the day gave me insight into how demanding and oddly draining the whole process is.

I kind of managed to put it out of my mind for a while—it was so early in the administration and there was so much to do, it was easy to not think about the day we played dress-up. About a month later, the magazine contacted us so we could see the mock-up and make sure that there was nothing incriminating in the article or about the pictures, a stipulation we’d had to put in. Another stipulation was that Josh’s side of the building had to okay it, too. I think that was mostly because he wanted to tease me about it…well, tease me more than he already had. Like I didn’t feel self-conscious enough.

Somehow, the whole thing met with everyone’s approval, minus a few tweaks here and there, and when I could bring myself to ignore the oddity of seeing my face all over the article, even I could admit that it was good for us. As far as magazines go, _Vogue_ is fairly well-respected and tries to keep things classy, and they’ve certainly featured people in politics before, and their enthusiasm to be the first one to tell the story of Helen Santos and her staff helped to make sure everything was aboveboard. 

It wasn’t long after that the issue went to press—either they’d had something for us in mind for a while, or they bumped other articles to make sure this one got out there before any other publication could tell our story. A bunch of copies showed up at the White House for us, and that wound up being the most surreal part of the whole thing—seeing the actual publication. There we were on the cover, all three of us trying to pass as some version of a model, with _The Women of the White House_ smooshed into one of the free spaces on the page. They’d initially wanted Mrs. Santos on her own for the cover, but she actually told them that it was the three of us or the whole thing was off. I truly had no desire to be on the cover—I was still having a difficult time wrapping my mind around being in the magazine period and really thought even that wasn’t necessary—but Mrs. Santos told them that it was the three of us that drew them in, so the three of us were what they were going to get. Mostly, though, I think she felt uncomfortable being the focus of the article and wanted backup. That part I could understand completely.

Even though we were still crazy busy and didn’t have time for much of anything, I made my way to Josh’s office for moral support only to find him pouring over his own copy of the magazine, staring in fascination. He actually looked dazzled and told me that I should be in more magazines. That was when I noticed a new, large, framed picture…of me. He just grinned at me, unabashed. It was a picture that wound up in the magazine, though not one that’d been planned. I don’t even remember anyone taking it. I was leaning against a window, seemingly staring out into the distance and contemplating life, if the look on my face is any indication—though, I was probably in a panic about how much I wasn’t getting done at work by doing the shoot—the morning sun filtering in, though I’m just about the only thing lit in the shot. I sort of remember seeing it in the mock-up they showed us, but I guess I figured it’d never make it into the magazine. What the hell did they need with a picture of me? Turns out, for whatever reason, they gave it its own page. We all had our own pages, actually, and several with all of us. Though it seems that not only did Josh take a shine to that particular picture of me, he managed to request and receive a larger, framed copy of it, and was proudly displaying it on his desk. It took more begging and pleading than was dignified to get him to take it home, and that was only after I told him I would lose all credibility as Chief of Staff if he insisted on keeping that picture in his office. Who’s going to take me seriously if I look like I’m pretending to be a model in my spare time? I don’t think he believed it, but he took it out of the office anyway, if nothing else because he could see how much it was stressing me out. 

He did ask me at some point after that why I’d agreed to the whole thing in the first place if I was just going to try to pretend it didn’t happen, and the only answer I could give was that I didn’t think it’d include me. I thought it was going to focus on Mrs. Santos and that Annabeth and I would mostly be there for moral support. I assumed that once they had the First Lady in her gown and all that, they’d realize that she was all they needed for the article. I was, obviously, mistaken. I still think it was a great move for her, and it really answered a lot of questions the country might have had about her, but I think I could have done without it.

The picture itself has been a never-ending battle between Josh and me since then, though. He likes to put it out on display, and I find it immeasurably strange to walk into our apartment and see an oversized print of me, so I’ll stick it somewhere else, usually just tossing it on the bed in the spare room, sometimes shoving it under the mattress there when I’m really tired of playing the game, but, like a bad penny, it shows up again. And now…now it’s on the bookshelf, almost taunting me.

“Why do you do that when you know it makes me uncomfortable?”

“Why are you so uncomfortable with it? You’re not camera-shy or anything. In fact, if memory serves, you’re exceptionally good on camera.”

“TV cameras are a little different, and that was always for an entirely different reason.”

“Hey, that _Vogue_ thing was for the administration. It had a lot of positive fallout and you know it.”

“I’m not going to deny that it did, but I just don’t get why—”

“Because I love you, and I’m incredibly proud of you, and that magazine kind of proves just how far you’ve come since I’ve known you. It wasn’t like all the times you wound up in magazines and newspapers by accident because of your association with me or the White House—this was all you and it’s incredible. All those pictures of you were stunning but this one made me weak in the knees. In that moment, when I first saw it, I was so glad that I didn’t have to pretend that I didn’t have feelings for you and that I could request a copy of it because you’re my girlfriend instead of what I would have had to do before that, which would have been to buy an extra copy and rip out the pages and stare at the pictures when no one else was around.”

And then he says things like that. “You’re a…you’re such…you’re so…”

“Ridiculous. I know. You’ve mentioned it.”

I glance over at the picture again, cringing a few moments later. “We’re gonna have to compromise about this at some point, you know.”

“I thought we had—you told me I couldn’t keep it at work and I brought it home. Not really fair, but I did it anyway. I mean, hell, I _want_ to show off my model-like girlfriend—”

“Okay, Josh, that’s the problem—I _don’t_ want people to think I’m a model. Do you know how hard it is for me to be taken seriously on a daily basis? There are too many people in this town who remember me as your assistant, and if they’re not elbowing each other because they think I got my job by sleeping with you, they’re telling me I have such a lovely face and that I photograph well. I just want to be good at my job—”

“You are!” he interrupts frantically. “You’re very good at your job.”

“And people see that, eventually, if they can get past the fact that the first thing I did as Chief of Staff was pose for a magazine. Anyone who believes I got the position by sleeping with you will _always_ think I got the job that way.”

A strange flush travels up his neck, infusing his cheeks with pink. “Who says that shit? Seriously—I want to know. Who says that kind of thing to you? I’ve never heard _anyone_ mention anything like that.”

“And you won’t, either. People may be dumb, but they’re not dumb enough to insult your girlfriend to your face. There’s not a person in DC who isn’t aware that Josh Lyman is not the enemy to have. They’ve known that for years; some learned it the hard way. I don’t blame them—I’ve seen you in action. I know how quickly and efficiently you can cut people off at the knees when the mood suits you. None of that stops people from thinking or saying it about me.”

He looks pained, scooting close to me on the couch as he takes my hands. “You have to deal with this all the time?”

“Unfortunately, it’s not exclusive to me. I know very few women who don’t have go to through life defending how they got a job or their position. Way too many people assume that we get places on our backs or knees, or by having something on the people above us.”

“Seriously?” he asks, absolutely floored. “Why haven’t you told me this before?”

“Josh…I never think about it. It’s just part of being a woman. I know that doesn’t make anyone’s behavior right, but there are very few women who wake up every day without the knowledge that they’re going to have to work twice as hard as the men around them to prove they belong when men never have to prove anything. We all know it. It’s ingrained. It’s in the backs of our minds at all times. But it almost never occurs to any of us to say anything about it because that’s always been life.”

He glances over his shoulder at the picture on the bookshelf for a few seconds before turning back to me. “And that’s why you don’t want to have the picture out in the apartment?”

I can’t help it—I burst out laughing for a few seconds, then lean in and kiss his cheek. He’s trying so hard to follow my train of thought and I love him for it. “Sort of, in a small way. You look at that picture and you see…whatever it is you see. I look at it and see how, even a year later, it comes up in some conversation I happen to be having. I know that it was good for the administration, and I know it was good for Mrs. Santos and her image—I know it’s done more good than harm overall—but I still have to deal with dozens of pompous old windbags who feel the need to bring up my modeling career in some way, and I can’t help but feel like a liability. It’s like everything I’m doing takes twice as long because I have to get people to stop thinking about me dressed up in a magazine before I can make any headway.”

He stares at me for a few long moments, a strange mix of emotions on his face. I think I’ve managed to blow his mind in a very short time span. “…and all of this is why you don’t want to put your name on the deed?”

I laugh again, this time falling backward against the arm of the couch at the absurdity of it all. “One has nothing to do with the other, I promise. Despite how it seems, these are two entirely different conversations.”

“I think it’s not the point, but all I’m hearing is that I can’t keep my favorite picture, _and_ I don’t get to have your name on the apartment.”

“You’re right—that’s _not_ the point.”

He rubs his hands over his face a few times, then gives his hair the same treatment. “I feel like I need a scorecard to keep up with our conversations sometimes, you know that? We went from talking about making this place officially ours, to how much my dad apparently adored you, to how difficult it is to be a woman in the workforce—which it is, I’m not denying that—in a matter of moments. I have no idea what’s going on now.”

I smile in sympathy, reaching out to pat his leg. I do feel a little bad for the guy—this has been his life for the last year and a half. “Bet you’re kind of wishing I was still on that trip right about now, huh?”

His eyes fly open, and he shakes his head vehemently. “God, no. You may confuse the hell out of me and I really have no idea what’s going on at any given point, but it’s infinitely better than being here without you.” He gives me his most charming smile, the dimples in his cheeks really standing out. “I’d rather be lost and baffled with you here than sane and without you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep—told you. Dumb. It was just one of those ideas I couldn’t get out of my head, so I wrote it the best I could.


	6. Chapter 6

_“I’d rather be lost and baffled with you here than sane and without you.”_

 

“Wow—and here I thought you said you missed sex.”

He gives me a look, crinkling his forehead. “I did; of course I did. Hornier than hell over here.”

“Then why would you say something that would absolutely guarantee that you won’t be getting any sex for a really long time?”

He grins again, completely cocky this time, and leans in to give me a kiss. “We’ll see about that.”

I really wish I wasn’t turned on by his arrogance—I wish even more that he didn’t know what it does to me. “I’m going to be locked up tighter than Fort Knox.”

His eyebrows shoot up and he somehow grins even wider. “Challenge accepted,” he answers quietly, leaning in to kiss me again. He leans back, his demeanor shifting back into neutral. “So, about putting your name on—”

“I’ll think about it,” I interrupt. “I told you I’d think about it.”

“Okay, but you actually have to think about it. You can’t just wait for me to bring it up again and say you don’t want to do it and that’s the end of it. I do want us to talk about it in between the thinking about it.” He pauses, looking at me thoughtfully. “It’s important to me that you never feel like this is my place and you’re just living in it. Because it’s not. It’s ours. It’s our home, a home you deserve to be a part of in every way. Even if you won’t let me keep gorgeous pictures of you on display.” I roll my eyes and shake my head—trust him to take an almost-sweet moment and ruin it.

“It’s just that…you like to play fast-and-loose with all of this stuff and it freaks me out.”

“All of what stuff? Is this about the bank account thing again, because I thought we’d beaten that one into the ground. You spent my money for years before we ever saw each other naked, and I never would have questioned you taking anything you needed if you’d needed it. And, I’ll say it for the millionth time, you are the only person who’s ever had access to any of that stuff. It’s not like when I started dating Amy I gave her a checkbook and told her to go wild. You were still the only person who could do that. I don’t think it’s ‘fast-and-loose’ to want you, the woman I’ve officially been sharing my life with for the last year and a half and unofficially for almost ten years before that, to share all of this stuff with me. Hell, Donna, you’ve had a key to this place for how many years? You’ve had the ability to wander in and out any time you wanted. Even before all of those fringe benefits you’re now offering me, I trusted you with my life. Why doesn’t it make sense to you to do this?”

“I don’t want to count those chickens before they hatch, Josh.”

“I thought people from Wisconsin—”

“Seriously—if you ever want to see me naked again, you won’t finish that thought.”

He looks appropriately chastised. “Shutting up, ma’am.”

I take a deep, shaky breath, trying to gather my thoughts. “It just feels…I don’t know…like we shouldn’t do that stuff without something… _official_ between us.” I look of understanding filters across his face and I reach out, putting a reassuring hand on his knee. “I’m not asking for or angling for that right now—that’s not what this is about. I’m not trying to guilt or pressure you into proposing. That stuff will happen when it happens if it’s going to happen. But maybe we should just…hold off on something as huge as making me part-owner of the apartment you’ve lived in on your own for years until we know that we’re…official.”

His eyes are comically large right now, and if I wasn’t busy trying not to hyperventilate at the merest idea that we’re not in it for the long haul, I’d laugh. “Seriously? Donna, we’ve talked about this. I mean, we’ve known since the beginning that this is the one. We talked about that in Hawaii, and we’ve talked about it more than once since then. We’ve talked about getting married—hell, we _know_ we’re gonna get married. My future with you is the only thing I ever feel certain about, and not in some over-confident way. I just _know_ with you. You’re my forever, my…happily ever after. We’re going to spend the rest of our lives together. That’s why I’m ready to put your name on this place with mine—it’s our home, Donna. All of this stuff with you isn’t a whim. It’s not some romantic notion I had while missing you this past week. I’ve put a lot of thought and research into this to find out what would be the best thing to do. I’m not saying I made the choice for us—I’m just saying that I wanted to know what our options are.”

I don’t know why I didn’t just smile and nod when he started talking about this earlier—I wouldn’t have been committing to anything and he would have been happy to say what he needed to say and we could have had this conversation after I’d been home more than a couple of hours instead of me trying to process way too much information on too little sleep. We could have just had sex and gone to bed. Now, I just feel overwhelmingly emotional. “Okay, so, if we’re going to get married at some point, why don’t we just wait until then? Why does it matter if we do it now or…however long from now? I mean, if we do it now and then we get married and I change my name, aren’t we going to have to go through the whole process again?”

I can actually see the argument die on his lips, his mouth dropping open as he stares at me in wonder. “You’re gonna change your name?”

I shrug self-consciously. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know.”

“You’re thinking about changing your name?”

“A lot of women change their last name when they get married, it’s not a—”

“Don’t say it’s not a big deal. Don’t say it. You’ve worked really hard to get people to know who Donna Moss is; changing your name…could be crazy.”

I feel an odd twinge in my stomach. “You…you don’t want me to be Donna Lyman?”

He blinks at me a few times. “Whoa,” he breathes, the corners of his mouth quirking up. “Donna Lyman.”

A shiver passes through me at that, tingles going from my head to my toes. I haven’t spent a lot of my time “trying on” Josh’s name, and this is the first time I’ve heard it from his lips. It sounds kinda great.

“It’s not so bad, right?” I ask tentatively, and he shakes himself out of his reverie.

“It’s amazing,” he whispers. “I just don’t want you to lose who you are. I don’t ever want you to be relegated to ‘Josh Lyman’s wife.’ You’ve worked too hard.”

“Well, I mean, it could be Moss-Lyman. I’m not a huge fan of hyphenating names, but you might have a small point. But does that mean our kids would be ‘Moss-Lyman’, or would they just be ‘Lyman’?”

I watch his Adam’s apple bob as swallows, a small look of panic filtering across his face—it’s always interesting how talking about kids in an abstract sort of way doesn’t freak him out, but as soon as something more concrete like a name is mentioned, or what sort of schools around us are good, he starts to unravel a bit. “One major step at a time, okay?” He grabs my hand, squeezing my fingers tightly. “If you want, this is something we can ask my lawyer when we talk to him—the thing with maiden name versus married name, not about what last name our potential kids should have. It might not even matter which name is on there because you’d be able to prove a name change at that point. I do know that if we’re married, the whole thing with putting your name on it becomes moot because you’d have rights and such toward the apartment…well, I think I know. I just don’t ever want there to be any question about who you are to me and your place in my life, okay?”

“Okay,” I tell him.

He eyes me warily, probably not sure what it is that I’m agreeing to. “Okay, then.” He leans in and kisses me. “Are we good?”

“Yes. We’re good. We’re fine.”

“Good.” He kisses me again. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I assure him, running my hand over his cheek. 

The corner of his mouth quirks up for a second before he stands, grabbing his empty beer bottle. “You got some mail while you were gone.” He disappears behind me for a few moments before a large, flat cardboard envelope appears in front of my face. “Maybe you could put this on the wall next to that picture you don’t like, balance things out a little.” I reach out and grab it, hearing him go into the kitchen. My breath catches in my throat—it’s from Georgetown. This can only be one thing. Josh must have pulled a few dozen strings to get them to send it early.

“Aren’t you gonna open it?” he asks, his voice startling me a little. I look up as he flops back onto the couch.

“I wanted to wait for you,” I answer softly, waiting until he scoots closer to me to rip off the little serrated tab. I reach in and carefully pull out large piece of parchment paper, holding it flat against the envelope. My diploma. My college diploma. It’s almost fifteen years late, but I did it. I run my fingertips over the paper reverently, my eyes misting over.

“Huh. Magna Cum Laude,” Josh says, looking over my shoulder. “Who knew?”

I nudge him with my arm, unable to take my eyes off the document. “You knew. You were there.”

“Yeah, barely. Why you didn’t want to make a thing out of graduating I’ll never know.”

I just roll my eyes—we had that discussion earlier in the spring. At the end of the fall semester, my advisor told me that if I could take a full course-load in the spring, I could graduate in May. I hadn’t realized I was quite that close, and it required me taking eighteen credit hours, but after talking to Mrs. Santos and to Josh and even my mom, I decided to go for it. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t fun. I was constantly exhausted. My professors often made enormous concessions for me, knowing I couldn’t make it to class regularly at times, but I always had my assignments turned in on time, if not early. Working in the White House, for better or for worse, gave me a lot of leeway with that stuff. I had group projects I had to take part in, which was disconcerting and surreal working with people who were still essentially kids and who had a completely different mentality than myself, though no less of a work ethic. Some of them were able to get over my job title—a few weren’t and had a tough time even looking me in the eye. Still…I did it. I don’t know how, but I did it. Josh cheered me on every step of the way, enabling me with my caffeine addiction, sitting up with me late into the night as I did my homework or needed a sounding board for yet another paper. By that point, everyone in my office knew what I was working on and took as much off my plate as they could to help me out, even though I still put in at least ten hours a day at work. It wasn’t always consecutive, but I always got my job done. 

Even after all that work, I’d decided I wasn’t going to walk at the ceremony. I felt ridiculous making a big deal out of it, even though I wasn’t at all the oldest person graduating. Josh tried to convince me to do it, as did everyone in my family, Josh’s mom, Mrs. Santos, and even the President. It wasn’t until about two days before the ceremony I realized that I’d missed out on so much of my original college experience, and I didn’t want to regret not going to the graduation. I had worked my ass off for it. Not a lot of people who drop out of college ever get to go back, and no matter how many years it took me to get there, I did it. It was worth commemorating. The moment I mentioned it, Josh told his detail, who nearly had a stroke when they found out they had about twenty-four hours to make sure the building where my department’s ceremony was being held could be secured—that wasn’t for me so much as for Josh but it still had to be done. I had to get the whole cap and gown getup, only to find out that I also needed to get honor cords and such because I’d managed to pull off the whole thing with good grades. I was somehow not at all surprised to find out the next day that the ceremony was being delayed because of the arrival of the entire Santos family. All the people who knew but didn’t completely comprehend what my job was could only stare in shock as the First Family stood and cheered for me, then hugged and congratulated me at the end. Naturally, the President posed for pictures with a lot of people, but it was really touching that the four of them managed to get in on such short notice—and the picture of me and Josh with Matt, Helen, Peter, and Miranda Santos is already framed and displayed proudly in my office—especially when I never had the chance to say anything about my sudden change of plans.

Josh actively avoided eye contact when I mentioned it, not that it was at all surprising that he was the culprit. Sweet, impossible man.

My parents were a little miffed at me for not letting them know earlier—I know they’d wanted to come in for the whole thing—and I felt bad about that part, but by that point, Josh and I had already made plans to fly out to Madison that weekend so we could all celebrate together. I’d thought it was more reasonable than the original plan, which was for the entire Moss clan, including in-laws and grandparents, plus Josh’s mom, to fly in for the graduation. There was no way Josh and I could fit all of those people in our apartment, and the thought of them having to spring for hotel rooms after getting flights out to DC was too much for me. Still, after I explained, for the millionth time, that it really was a last minute decision, we stuck to the plan and Josh and I made the trip Wisconsin afterward so we all could celebrate. They did force me to bring my cap and gown so they could all pose for pictures with me, which was definitely more than silly, but it felt so nice to know that I’d finished it that I couldn’t complain about the fuss.

I do know that the actual diplomas—not the blank, rolled up pieces of paper we get at the ceremony—aren’t sent out until months after the fact, so I’m assuming that Josh used his considerable influence to get mine rushed. For once, I’m not going to complain about the abuse of power.

I feel his lips on my cheek. “I’m proud of you, honey. You nearly killed yourself doing it, but...damn. You did it.”

Nodding, I can’t help but sniffle a little. Josh puts his hand on my chin and gently turns my face toward his. I’m sure my eyes are red, and I know I have a couple of tears trickling down my cheeks. I smile at him reassuringly. “I’m okay. It’s just…I know it’s only a piece of paper but it makes all of this feel so real. It’s proof that I’m not a failure.”

“You were _never_ a failure. Don’t ever say that.”

“Call it whatever you want,” I answer, turning back to look at the diploma. “I’m not a quitter, then. I finally managed to see this through.”

“Well, you’re pretty incredible,” he answers. “I really don’t know how you managed to do it, especially the last few months, but I think you’ve proven you can do _anything_ you set your mind to.” He hesitates for a moment, and I can only imagine what’s coming next. “All the more reason for you to reconsider that whole Madame President thing in a few years.”

“I get a college diploma and you get delusions of grandeur.”

“They’re not delusions—I have great ideas.”

“Well, all I can say is even if I were to ever entertain the notion, I’d want to do something on a smaller scale first. Local government, mayoral bids, things like that.” I can feel his eyes boring into my head and I look back at him, shaking my head. “I’m not at all saying that this is something I’m now planning. I’m only saying that, like any sane person, I’d want experience on a smaller scale before ever going for something as inconsequential as the President of the United States. That’s all.” A silly, wicked idea forms in my head, one that’s only to make him squirm. “Besides, I think I might be more suited for president of the PTA.”

His face blanches just a little, but I give him a lot of credit for not bolting—we’ve talked an awful lot about potential children tonight and he’s managing to take it all in relative stride. “Our future spawn don’t even have a definite last name yet and you’re already planning to run the Parent-Teacher Association?”

“There’s a campaign for you. It’d probably be a lot more cutthroat than anything you’re used to, though.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” he answers, leaning in close. “How about _I_ run the PTA, and _you_ run the country?”

I chuckle, very carefully putting my diploma back into its envelope to keep it safe before I get it framed. “I don’t think you could handle all those soccer moms, babe.”

I can feel him shudder against me. “Yeah; I think I’d rather take my chances with a pack of rabid wolves. Seems safer.” He plucks the envelope out of my hands and puts it on the far side of the coffee table, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and tugging me into his side. “I think we’ve done enough heavy-duty talking for tonight, don’t you?”

“Considering I expected us to do very little talking at all, I’d say that’s a big yes.”

His chuckle rumbles through his chest as he settles himself until he’s mostly lying down, and I readjust myself, putting my head under his chin. “Want to watch some TV or something?”

“Only if it’s something completely mindless. No CSPAN or anything.”

He stretches out his arm half-heartedly and I roll half over him for a few seconds, grabbing the remote off the coffee table. I pass it off to him, only briefly considering how it might be stupid to relinquish control like that, but at this point, I’m too comfortable to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn’t mean to give the impression during the last update that the story was over. I just meant that my dumb ideas about being in Vogue/the photo shoot were, indeed, dumb. I’m moderately obsessed with photography & pictures, though, and I tend to awkwardly reflect this. This won’t be the only time pictures come into play in one of these stories. Still a couple of chapters to go.


	7. Chapter 7

My eyes blink open, and I'm surprised that everything is dark. I blink a few more times, trying to take in my surroundings, confusion washing over me as I realize the artificial light trickling in from the cracks in the curtains is slightly illuminating my bureau. That can't be right. I'm traveling with Mrs. Santos right now. I suppose it's possible that one of the hotel rooms has furniture that looks like mine, but I don't remember it when I checked in.

I feel arms tighten around me slightly and happiness floods through me—I'm home. How could I have forgotten that? I got home hours ago. I suppose my brain was so used to traveling that I just assumed I was still somewhere overseas.

I'm so glad I'm not.

Instead, I'm in bed with Josh, surrounded by him and all of my familiar trappings, the pillows and blankets that give me so much comfort, the supremely comfortable mattress that we bought about a year ago, all of it.

I don't know if I ever articulate it to him enough, but I'm so insanely happy with him and our life. It doesn't bother me that I get home from a ten-day work trip and the first thing we do is get into a minor tiff about putting my name on his apartment because I'm just so stupidly…happy. We may argue and poke at each other until we get a reaction, but that's what we've always done. It's our normal. It works for us. It comes from such a place of love that I can't imagine a life that doesn't include sparring with Josh. I'd rather fight with him than have peaceful, boring conversations with someone else. Any day of the week.

I feel Josh's lips on my neck, then his fingers stroke my stomach, and I realize he's not asleep. I suppose that makes sense since he's not dead weight on top of me.

"Why're you awake?" I ask softly, hoping not to startle him. He only pulls me closer in response.

"Why're you?" he asks in return, kissing the back of my head.

"I'm not really sure that I am." Truly, this entire moment feels hazy and dreamlike, though I imagine that's due in large part to my confusion over my surroundings. "I don't even remember going to bed."

He chuckles quietly, the sensation rumbling through my back. "Yeah, well, you wouldn't. I don't think the TV was on for ten minutes before you were passed out on the couch." Now that he mentions it, I do have some foggy memories of settling in against him earlier, telling him that he couldn't watch the news but that's about it. "We stayed out there for a little while, but then I just brought you to bed. I figured it had to be more comfortable than the couch."

"How did you even get me in here?" I can't imagine him risking life and limb to wake me at that point. I mean, for the most part, I'm a completely normal human when woken, but if I'm running on little and/or bad sleep—especially bad sleep—and someone has the audacity to wake me…well, it can get ugly. Josh has really learned that the hard way since we started sleeping together. In my defense, it doesn't happen a lot, but I've seen Josh recoil in no small amount of fear when he's had the bad fortune of poking that particular beast.

He snorts a little, automatically knowing what I'm talking about. "I carried you."

"Josh," I groan in exasperation. "You're not supposed to do that."

"Says you."

"That's not at all good for your back."

"Yeah, well, waking you up wouldn't be at all good for my _life_. Besides, you're not exactly heavy."

"I'm not exactly light, either."

"You're a mere wisp of a thing."

I shake my head. "Josh, I'm almost six feet tall. There's a lot of me."

"So what? I did it. I got you into bed without incident. You never even flinched. My body doesn't hurt as a result. Everyone's a winner."

I sigh and press myself further against his chest, reveling in the warmth of his body against mine. "Next time, just wake me."

He makes a noise that almost sounds like a laugh. "Look—I love you and I want to spend a very long time with you, so I'm not being taken out like that. You might be the death of me at some point, but it's not going to be because I thought waking you up was a really swell idea."

I would like to be insulted or argue with him, even though I know exactly how right he is, but…I don't have it in me. I'm warm and cozy and curled up in bed next to the man I love. We argue enough as it is.

"You didn't answer my question," I finally say, bringing one of his hands up to my lips.

He nuzzles his nose against my neck. "What was the question?"

"Why're you awake?"

"Oh. No idea. I figured I'd pass out right behind you, what with the whole not getting a lot of sleep while you were gone thing, and I did nod off for a little while, but…I don't know. I guess I just wanted to make sure I wasn't dreaming you."

"That's so sappy," I tease, trying to burrow myself even further into his chest.

"You've always got to ruin our nice moments, you know that?"

"Well, someone's got to keep you in line." His answering chuckle rumbles through my back. "How long have we been in here?"

He shrugs, moving my body up and down with his arms. "A few hours, I guess."

I shift a little and he loosens his grip, giving me room to turn onto my back. He balances on his elbow above me, his dark eyes twinkling just a little in the ambient light. I run my hand down his chest, pleased to see he removed his shirt at some point. I rub my legs against his, a little amused that neither of us is wearing pants now. It's possible that I took mine off while sleeping, but it's more likely that he divested me of them. It doesn't bother me, especially not in the warm weather. I know I used to sleep in pajamas of some sort, but since being with Josh, if we sleep in anything at all, it's usually just underwear. It's not something that ever really appealed to me on my own, but I like getting as much skin to skin contact with Josh as possible.

He runs his fingers softly down the side of my face, making me shiver a little. I continue my exploration of his chest, the tips of my fingers finding his old surgical scar with practiced ease. I don't even think about it most of the time—the incision is so faint that it's easy to forget—but every once in a while, it hits me just how close he came to dying. It's sickening to think about and not entirely for selfish reasons. I love him with every fiber of my being and of course I want him to be around forever, but it's horrible to imagine a world without Josh Lyman. He does so much good; his heart is so big and he really wants to make the world a better place. He fights for what's right, even when it means he stands alone. He sees the good in people. He loves with his entire body and mind, even if he'd never want to admit it. His heart thumps steadily beneath my hand, reminding me that he's whole and healthy, and my heart flutters in response.

I clear my throat, trying push those thoughts aside. "Sorry I fell asleep. I know we had plans—"

He shakes his head a little, smiling down at me tenderly. "Don't worry about it. We didn't have anything concrete. All I wanted was to have you next to me in bed and you're here. The rest is incidental."

I lift my eyebrow skeptically at Josh calling sex "incidental." "Still, I didn't mean to just—"

He shakes his head again, running a finger over my lips. "I'm not worried. Seriously, Donna, you're home. That's all that matters to me." He leans down, kissing me softly for a few long, beautiful moments. "I love you."

I smile up at him, taking my hand from his chest and running it through his hair. "Josh, it's not that I hate to hear it, but you've been saying that an awful lot since I got home. What's going on?"

He leans back a little, his forehead crinkling. "What're you talking about?"

"You've been telling me you love me constantly."

"Well…I _do_ love you."

"I know you do. I love you, too. You just don't usually feel the need to tell me a dozen times a day."

He lets out a sigh and flops onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "It's going to sound dumb."

"It's not going to sound dumb. Tell me."

He's silent for a while, though I can tell he hasn't fallen asleep. I wait patiently, pushing myself up to my elbow so I can see him; sometimes it can be hard to get him to open up about things, but if I don't push him, he'll usually tell me anyway.

"It's just…" he says finally, trailing off as he searches for the words. "I went so many years without telling you how I feel about you, you know? All those years we worked together when all I could do was think about the next time I'd see you or talk to you but I never…I didn't want to think about what that was, you know? I should have. I shouldn't have been so worried about appearances. I should have at least admitted it to myself. I would have saved myself a lot of headaches."

I swear I feel my insides twist into happy little knots. "Josh…"

"I guess…I want to tell you that I love you as often as I can, because for so long I couldn't. Because I don't want to waste a chance to tell you what you mean to me. I've come so close to losing you so many times, and each time, I promised the universe at large that if I could just have another chance, I wouldn't take you for granted ever again. Every time— _every time_ —I made a liar of myself. And now, after all this time we've been together, I really thought I had it, you know? I thought that because we live together and see each other all the time that there was no way I could possibly ever take you for granted again, and then…then I couldn't remember if I told you I love you before you left for your trip. I mean, you were going overseas, and at the same time of year as the thing in Gaza, and I couldn't remember if I'd bothered to tell you. I just assumed that you know how I feel."

He's breaking my heart; he looks so distraught over this whole thing, I don't know what to do with myself. "Josh, I _do_ know how you feel. I do. And you told me just before I got on the plane, and then every time I talked to you. I never question it, and I never doubt it. Even if you hadn't said it, though, I'd know—"

"But, Donna, I couldn't remember if I'd said it, and I realized I'd gotten so complacent about us that I had no memory of actually saying the words, at least not in the last few months, and I realized I was doing it again. I was taking you for granted. I can't do that. I can't just assume you'll always be here and that you just know how I feel about you. I have to tell you. I have to tell you as often as I can that you're my whole world, and that you make everything better just by being here, and that you're amazing—truly, truly awe-inspiring—at your job. I'm so grateful that you come home with me every day, and that you made it back safely. I love you." He clears his throat, letting out a self-deprecating chuckle. "I know I sound crazy right now, but I just don't ever want to assume anything when it comes to us. We were so close to not being us that I want to try to appreciate every day we're together. I want us to do stuff together when we're not at work, and I want us to go on vacations because we deserve that much. Our jobs may be grueling and demanding, but that doesn't mean we can't be regular people in our spare time."

I reach over and run my fingers over his cheek, his light scruff tickling me just a little. "I don't feel like you're taking me for granted, at least not any more than I take you for granted, and maybe I should be careful about that, too." I sigh and drop back down to the bed, pressing myself against his side. "Josh, I know you love me, but if you want to say it at every opportunity, I'm not going to stop you."

He laughs and turns to face me, resting his hand on my hip. "I really missed you," he whispers. "I know that makes me ridiculous and needy, but I like being around you, and that many days apart _sucked_. I know it's part of the job and it's probably not the last time one of us will have to be gone because of it, but..." He trails off, shrugging. "I just have to be grateful that it's a temporary separation when it happens, and remember that we've gotten through worse for longer periods of time, so I can handle a work trip."

He'll probably deny being this sentimental when the morning comes, or blame it on the late hour and lack of sleep, so I'm going to revel in the moment while I can. "I love you," I tell him softly, leaning in to press my lips to his. I'm not at all surprised when his arms wrap around me and pull me closer, deepening the kiss. Being apart from each other for that long really is hard, but I guess I had the trip to distract me. Josh had no such luck. Not that he didn't have plenty of work of his own to keep him occupied, but coming back to our empty apartment every day must have only encouraged his maudlin thoughts.

We shift a little, moving until I'm on my back. Josh drapes himself partially over me, one of his legs between mine, his hand pushing up my t-shirt until he can stroke my stomach. I unwind a little even as the rest of my body goes on high alert; my brain is suddenly aware that sex is imminent and I already feel a little blissful as a result. Meanwhile, the rest of me, who hasn't been touched in any way remotely like this for almost two weeks, is tingling with anticipation. It's always interesting to me that I could go so many years without any form of intimacy on a regular basis and feel, for the most part, fine, but now, after being in a relationship for a year and a half, going ten days without makes me feel like I'm going to explode.

His fingers move a little lower, running against the edge of my underwear, and I let out a little sigh as I shift closer. He leans down and kisses me, keeping it soft and undemanding, but my body squirms in response. "Josh," I whine.

"Do you wanna?" he breathes against my lips. I can feel the beginnings of his erection pressing into my hip, but he doesn't do anything about it.

"Oh, my, God—are you _kidding_ me?" I ask, trying to angle my body toward him and encourage him to move his hand a little lower.

"Consent is sexy," he tells me, kissing his way down my cheek until he gets to my ear, taking the lobe carefully between his teeth.

"Uh, honey…"

"Hey—earlier you said you were going to be locked up tighter than Fort Knox, so I just wanted to be sure." He moves to a spot behind my ear, and I shudder from head to toe. "Like I said, consent is sexy."

"Okay, I thought I was consenting pretty hard with all this, but if you're being a stickler about it…yes, I would like to do the sexual intercourse with you. Fill me with your love wand."

He snorts, spitting a little onto my neck, and his body shakes with laughter. "Sarcasm is as sexy as consent," he manages to choke out. "Love wand, huh?"

"Just shut up and make love to me, please," I answer, shifting so that I'm completely on my back again. He doesn't answer me; instead, he continues to kiss my neck, his fingers finally dipping beneath the edge of my underwear. I let out a sigh, relaxing beneath him. A few moments later, his fingertips finally brush over me and my hips jerk in response, tiny sparks of electricity shooting behind my eyelids.

"Hang on," he mumbles, pushing himself up a little. "I just need—let me…" He grabs the sides of my underwear, tugging at them as I push myself up, managing to pull them down my legs before tossing them across the room. He shimmies a little for a few moments, tossing his boxers in the same direction. I grab the bottom of my t-shirt and pull it over my head, dropping it on the floor next to the bed. Josh smiles at me gently, pushing the blankets off me a little so he can watch what he's doing.

His hand slides between my thighs again, my legs drifting apart to give him better access. I let out a shuddery sigh as he carefully strokes my skin, his touch avoiding any overly-sensitive areas. Meanwhile, I already feel like I'm going to explode. Between not seeing him for a week and a half, all the buildup from this evening, and Josh telling me that he wants to say "I love you" as often as possible simply because he can, I'm more than primed.

I whimper as his fingertips brush over me. He looks up at me, studying my face for a few moments I'm sure to make sure it wasn't a noise of protest. I push my hips toward him, trying to get more contact. Still, he keeps his touch light, torturing me.

"I could do this myself, you know," I growl, reaching up to grab onto his arm, but the bastard only smirks at me.

"Yeah, but you don't want to," he says lowly, a self-satisfied look on his face, visible even in the dark of our bedroom.

"I will if I have to," I counter, shifting my hips again. He lets out a put upon sigh and drops his head down, pulling one my nipples into his mouth. I gasp at the sensation, my hand moving to grab the back of his head. A moment later, his fingers make real contact with me and I moan. The man knows my body. That's been one of my favorite things about being Josh—knowledge is power to him, and that includes learning every square inch of his girlfriend's body. His competitive nature works to my advantage when it comes to sex; not only does he want to be the best I've ever had—which he is—he also wants to make sure I have an orgasm every time we have sex. He's been more successful than not in that arena, often taking as much time as I need to get me revved up. It's pretty phenomenal. Even the first time we were together…I was actually completely shocked to feel an orgasm rushing through my body then. I'd assumed that since we'd known each other for so long in such a different capacity that it'd be awkward and strange—granted, parts of it were—but we were compatible even then. He still took his time, paying attention to every noise I made and every reaction he got from my body. He's an expert now, playing my body like a professional musician, knowing where to touch and for how long before it's too much, adding the right amount of pressure at the right time. He never stops learning, either. I've never felt him get complacent with this aspect of our life, and I try not to, either. Even though I know ways to make him come harder and faster than he thought possible at his age—his words, not mine—we never stop trying to find new ways to make each other squirm.

His fingers push slowly into me, and I let out a long, shaky breath. His tongue moves slowly around my nipple, his fingers thrusting into me at the same speed, and my entire body shifts impatiently. He takes the hint, pushing the heel of his hand against me, rubbing it back and forth as his fingers move in quick, powerful thrusts. He lifts his head, smiling at me as his other arm slides under me, pulling close, and I can't help but smile in response. "I love you," he whispers. My back arches off the bed and I moan. "I love you so much." His voice is harsh and raspy in my ear, and I can feel myself quickly moving closer to the edge. It's less about being apart for a week and a half and more about the connection we have, the one that gets stronger every day. It's about how my body instinctively reacts to his touch, anticipating his next move but somehow always being surprised. It's about how turned on we both get by words, how even when we argue, it's our own version of foreplay.

I reach down and grab his wrist, holding him in place as my hips thrust against him; it feels unbelievable. Try as I might, I've never been able to replicate this feeling on my own. Self-love hasn't been the same since I got involved with Josh.

I gasp, my eyes flying open to find his face next to mine, watching my reactions intently. I'm close; he knows it. It's not even that unusual for me to come quickly with him. Another thing I love about him—he may look incredibly smug when he can bring me to orgasm in mere minutes, but he's never once teased me or made fun of me for it. He's just happy to be a part of it.

"Josh," I breathe. My stomach coils into a knot and my breath catches in my throat. My body locks for a few moments, arching high off the bed. There's a buzzing in my ears as the orgasm flashes through me. A few long moments later, I start breathing again, my hips thrusting sloppily against his touch, his hand doing the best it can to move within me as I hold it clamped to my body. He kisses my neck, his breath coming in short puffs against my skin. I let go of his wrist only to tug his arm, pulling at him until he shifts on top of me. I wrap my arms and legs around him, holding him close as I kiss him.

"God, you're beautiful," he mumbles against my mouth, making me smile. The fact that he can say that after all this time must mean he believes it. It's one thing to be at the beginning of a relationship and think your partner is the most glorious creature to ever walk the planet, but after a year and a half…he's seen some things—things that he never would have been privy to while we worked together the first time, no matter how much time we spent together. He sees me first thing every morning, with my hair going in fifteen directions and makeup smeared after I forgot to take it off the night before and creases in my face from being pressed into the pillow all night. He's seen me with the flu and stomach bugs and cramps and days when I'm just plain evil. He's seen the entire spectrum of me—he's seen the best and the worst I have to offer and still looks at me like I…like I'm beautiful. It's more than I deserve some days, but I'm so glad he never gives up on me.

" _You're_ beautiful," I answer, sliding my hand through his unruly hair, holding him close to me. He is—to me he always is. The street goes both ways with this—I've seen him in varying states of health and sleeplessness since we got together. I've seen him at his angriest and most frustrated and most defeated and even when he stalks around the apartment, yelling and screaming about something that's gone wrong that day only to beg for my forgiveness an instant later when he realizes it comes across like he's taking it out on me. He's beautiful—inside and out—and it still shocks me that I get to share my life with him.

He rubs his nose against mine, sliding his arms under my shoulders. "You want to be on top?" he asks in a whisper, making my insides melt even more. It's certainly not the first time he's asked me that, trying to make sure I'm in the optimal position for maximum enjoyment, but we've had a lot of good things happen in the missionary position, definitely more than with any other guy I've been with. I attribute that to our connection, too, and the fact that I usually want him so badly that I'm always on the cusp anyway.

"No, this is good," I answer, lifting my legs so my knees bracket his sides. He shifts a little, moving so one arm is wrapped under my knee, and I manage to maneuver one of my hands between us, grabbing onto his erection. His head drops instantly, his face burying in my neck, and I sigh with satisfaction. I love the way he feels. I love that he gets like this for me. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he answers into my neck then lifts his head. He smiles at and I lean up to press another kiss to his lips. "I'm good."

I readjust my grip on him and he shifts his hips a little, rubbing himself against me. I gasp at the sensation, my head falling back against the pillow. He smirks a little, enjoying that he has the upper hand, even if it's only for a moment. I loosen my hold on him, dragging my nails delicately across his sensitive flesh, and he shudders from head to toe. He shakes his head, chuckling at himself a moment later, giving me another kiss. "Are you ready?"

Sighing, I reach up and stroke his hair, feeling love filter through every inch of my being. I don't know why it still gets to me—he asks every time we make love—but it's just so sweet and considerate to think about me like that, to never assume anything. There have been times where I haven't been ready, and he waits patiently, doing his part to get me where I need to be. "Yes," I answer. "Are you?"

He smiles, his teeth sparkling dimly in the low light of our bedroom. "Oh, yeah." With that, he shifts his hips again and I guide him into me—even though he'd be able to find his way blindfolded—gasping and letting go of him as he starts to fill me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That part with the constantly saying “I love you” is what I ripped off from another fic. I can’t remember who wrote it or what it was called to save my life (I’ll remember, I thought. No problem, I thought). I know it was a comparatively short story and it was definitely a West Wing fic. I hope if that author reads this, know that I was completely inspired by your words so I had to try to write something. The intent isn’t to plagiarize you or anything…I just loved the concept. One more chapter to go!
> 
> Oh! And I had a question for you guys. I have a couple of stories written in my latest notebook, and my intent was to post them linearly, but it occurred to me that I could post the second one first, and the first one could be posted after that to sort of fill in some blanks. I don’t think reading the first one would at all spoil the second one, but I was just curious if anyone had a preference. These still have to be typed up (hell, I still have to finish writing one of them, too), so it’s probably not an immediate concern, but if anyone has any feedback, I’d love to hear it.


	8. Chapter 8

"Are you okay?" he asks, stroking my hair back from my face, and I almost roll my eyes. He doesn't ask because he thinks his equipment is so above-the-norm that he can do damage to me, but because he has a genuine concern for my health and safety, and just wants to make sure everything is comfortable for me.

"I'm good," I answer, wrapping my free leg around his lower back. He rests his forehead against mine, breathing heavily, and I run my fingers down his spine—sometimes, _he_ needs a moment to acclimate. Last winter, we—completely accidentally—stopped using condoms. It was a heat of the moment thing, we were in the kitchen and the mood hit and we just went for it, and didn't realize until halfway through that we'd forgotten about it entirely. Despite a few long moments of panic, it wasn't that big of a deal. I still get the shot every few months—though I know I won't be able to do that for much longer since I've gotten those for just about as long as they're considered safe for one person to get them—and I know we're both clean. He's in no danger of catching anything from me, same as I know he's not going to give me anything. We're certainly not trying to get pregnant, though I feel a lot less concerned about that than I have at other points in my life…we just stopped using them. After that encounter, we decided it wasn't really necessary. We still keep them around, just in case I have an infection of some sort and am on antibiotics or for our...other activities, but otherwise, we don't use them. Personally, I can't tell the difference, but Josh swears it feels different. I don't know how much stock I put in that since that first time, he had no idea we were going bareback, but maybe it's a mental thing. Sometimes, like now, it really gets to him. I don't mind at all waiting until he's ready.

His hips thrust suddenly, pushing into me, and my eyes roll back in my head. He shifts against, pulling out of me almost completely before sliding back in, and my insides clench—literally and figuratively. He grunts and I refocus my eyes to see his face scrunched up, his expression almost pained. I run my fingers down his back again, unable to help myself from thrusting up just a little. He makes another noise, and even in the dark, I can see his face turning red.

"Breathe," I whisper, and instantly, he lets out a shuddery breath. His eyes flicker open and he smiles a little. "Breathe," I remind him again, just in case.

He leans down and kisses me, thrusting into me again slowly. "I love you," he manages to say, his free arm wrapping under my back to keep me close, the other pushing my leg up a little higher. I gasp and sigh at the same time, shuddering. There's something about the angle my leg creates when it's almost over his shoulder that makes this feel unreal.

"Oh, God, I love you," I gasp, wrenching my mouth from his. "Josh…Josh…oh, God, Josh." He answers by lowering his face to my neck, his teeth scraping across my skin, and starts pushing into me insistently. Our headboard knocks rhythmically against the wall; the feeling of Josh moving in and out of my body is heavenly. I dig my fingers into his back, arching myself into him, straining to get closer.

I feel his lips move up my neck until he reaches my mouth, kissing me brokenly between gasps of air. I dig my fingers into his back again and he settles his chest against mine; only our hips move, pushing and pulling at each other greedily but not frantically. I feel like we should be frantic by this point—we should be racing toward the finish line—but we're not. It feels amazing and incredible; his body pressed against mine, the feeling of being practically one person, of losing ourselves in each other…it's intense. It's beautiful. Part of me wants to hold onto this moment forever.

He groans, his eyes falling shut as his head lifts up; I pick up my head, pressing my lips to his Adam's apple. I can feel the vibrations through his throat as he moves within me steadily. I shift my leg, moving it to wrap under his ass and moan—one of his arms is still wrapped under my knee, pulling me tighter, creating more friction. His back is suddenly damp, drops of sweat cropping up everywhere. I wrap my arms under his, grabbing onto his shoulders. He pushes into me harder.

His eyes open suddenly and he looks down at me, his gaze intense even in the dark. Something tightens low in my stomach and I'm right on the edge. He must see it on my face because his eyes widen just a little, and he tightens his grip on me as his hips drive into me steadily, the friction inside and out of my body making me shake.

"Yes," I manage to breathe, maybe in answer to the question he hasn't yet asked, maybe just to encourage him. " _Yes_. So close."

He shifts a little—just a tiny bit—and my mouth falls open. My entire body stops for a few endless seconds as I forget how to breathe. I hold him closely with all of my limbs, my fingernails digging into his back. His hips drive into me mercilessly as an orgasm takes over my body. I unravel my leg from under his ass, pressing my foot against the mattress to give myself some leverage to push against him, and I finally remember how to breathe. " _Ohhhhhhhhh_ ," I manage to moan, possibly loud enough to wake one or two of our neighbors, but I can't bring myself to stop or even care.

He stops moving as my body continues to spasm, and I struggle to keep my eyes open to watch him watch me. He breathes heavily, the air hot on my face. My legs quake violently, trembling so badly that I almost dislodge Josh. He holds me tightly and I swear it's the only thing keeping me from spinning off into orbit.

My head falls to the side, my eyes falling shut involuntarily. I let out loud, strange noise—a cross between a sigh and a moan—and wrap my arms around him. He kisses my cheek, keeping his lips pressed against me as he starts to thrust again, harder and faster before, this time for his release. "Donna," he whispers, sounding as if he's in agony. "Oh, God."

"Ohhhhh," I moan. "Yes—oh, please, _yes!_ " It all still feels so amazing, the aftershocks, the continuation of the orgasm, whichever it is, Josh's movements drawing out the sensations.

"You're amazing," he tells me, his lips against my ear. "Jesus, Donna." His hand slides down to the small of my back, tilting my hips a little, and I push myself up for him. He groans—loudly—and I clench my inner muscles around him. He groans again, pushing into me faster and faster until his hips suddenly move erratically. I try to hold onto him, try to keep him close. His body goes completely stiff, his muscles straining beneath my fingers, and he lets out a shout, something that's not even a word. I gasp—I swear I can feel him coming. He pulses and twitches, and it's probably all in my head, but I'm positive I can feel him ejaculating in me. Maybe it's because we haven't had sex for ten days and he's been storing it up, maybe it's because I haven't felt him inside of me for that long, maybe I just want to believe I can feel it. All I know is…I feel _him_. Whatever this is, it feels incredible.

"Holy shit," he finally mumbles into my neck, and I can't help but laugh. He unhooks my leg and I stretch it out carefully to avoid getting a cramp, and I'm not surprised to feel that it's still shaking. I feel his lips on my clavicle, then my shoulder before he picks his head up, grinning at me. He looks victorious and exhausted, which feels appropriate. He balances over me, pushing my hair back from my face, and a wave of pure contentment washes through me. I'm where I'm supposed to be.

"I love you," I tell him, reaching up to cup his cheek. He turns a little, pressing a kiss to the palm of my hand.

"God, I love you," he answers, making my heart nearly burst. He leans down and we kiss slowly for a while, our smiles occasionally getting in the way. Eventually, I feel him shift and he slides off me, flopping onto his back. I know I should get up and go into the bathroom—we've long since gotten over the whole part of this where we feel like we're not supposed to get out of bed after sex. A few urinary tract infections on my part have pretty much cured us of that, and any time I don't want to get out of bed, Josh reminds me of how much pain I'm in when those happen. Still, I don't know if I trust my legs right now.

Instead, I reach over and grab his hand, threading our fingers together as I pull it to my chest, letting him feel my racing heart. I turn my head to find him already smiling at me. I push myself over, draping my body across his, and kiss him. His hand cups the back of my head, keeping me close for a few long moments before we come up for air.

"Don't you have to…" he sort of asks, angling his head toward the bathroom, and I groan a little in frustration.

"Sometimes it really sucks being the woman," I grumble.

"I don't doubt it," he answers, pulling me in for another kiss before I force myself to sit up.

"You're gonna be asleep by the time I get back out here," I whine, stretching my arms over my head and arching my back.

"No, I won't." His voice sounds strangled, and I peek at him out of the corner of my eye, not surprised to find him staring at my breasts as they thrust forward.

"You will," I tell him. "You're useless after sex." I lean over and give him another kiss, pushing myself out of bed. I cringe a little at the sensation, my body protesting after its recent bout of sexual acrobatics plus a week and a half of traveling on a plane. The first thing I do when I get into the bathroom is wet a washcloth with warm water, wringing it out and tossing it toward the bed. "Head's up," I call, feeling a small amount of satisfaction as it smacks against his bare skin. He grumbles a little, but I know he'll appreciate the chance to clean up a little, too.

I go about getting myself taken care of, doing the requisite though thoroughly unsexy post-coital pee. I take a few moments to clean myself off afterward, too, a little amused when I can see that my thigh muscles are still shaking just a little. Josh was definitely in top form tonight.

As I brush my teeth, I can't help but chuckle a little at my appearance. Aside from the fact that I look completely relaxed and sated, my hair seems to have taken on a life of its own. I try to smooth it down with one hand for a few moments before I just run a brush through it a couple of times and pull it back into a low ponytail. I take no small amount of amusement in the fact that I'm doing all of this naked, the mirror reflecting all of my antics back to me, but there's no way I'm putting clothes back on at this point. Even if we don't wind up having another round of sex at some point during what's left of the night—which I sincerely doubt we will—I want to be close to him like this.

I leave the bathroom, sighing a little in resignation when I hear his breathing. I don't fault him for falling asleep; it _is_ the middle of the night after all. He didn't get much sleep while I was gone, and he's definitely post-coital. He's earned a rest. Still…we tend to have some of our best conversations while basking in the afterglow. I wasn't even looking for anything deep tonight—we've done enough of that already today—but I wouldn't have minded _something_.

I crawl into bed beside him, pulling the blankets up over us as I settle in, turning onto my side and scooting back against Josh. He jumps almost instantly, gasping. "Geez! How the hell did you get so cold so fast?"

"It's a gift," I answer, grabbing his arm and pulling it over me. His body tenses for a few moments before he curls up behind me, his other arm stretching out across the pillow above my head. Just to be a jerk, I press my feet against his, giggling when he hisses and yanks his legs away from me.

"Donna," he whines, though I don't know why. We go through this almost every night; if it's not some body part of mine that's cold, it's something else I'm doing on purpose to be a pain in the ass.

I press myself into him again, this time trying to keep my cold extremities to myself; I reach up my free hand and lock my fingers with his on the pillow above my head. Within moments, he moves his legs back toward me, trapping my feet between his to help warm me up. I do tend to cool down quickly, especially after sex, but he somehow manages to forget every time. I suppose it has to do with his brain not getting enough blood at particular moments. Still, once he gets over the initial shock of how cold my body is, he's always very generous and becomes my own personal hot water bottle.

He's quiet, though not yet asleep. His fingers are lightly stroking my stomach—gently, but just hard enough so it doesn't tickle. It's comforting, though, and very relaxing.

"Sorry if that was too fast," he mumbles suddenly, and I turn my head a little, trying to see him out of the corner of my eye.

"What?"

"The sex. Sorry if I performed like a teenager."

"Hey, I came, didn't I? Twice, if you'll recall."

He laughs a little, vibrating my entire body at the same time. "Well, yeah. I'm still sorry if it felt like I rushed through it."

"Josh…you know I don't time it, right? That I've never timed it." He makes a noise and I roll my eyes a little before I turn in his arms so I can face him. It's easy to forget that he has as many insecurities as the rest of us mere mortals, and sometimes those insecurities need to be allayed, too. "Josh, c'mon." I put my hand on his cheek rubbing my thumb across his lips. He makes a little face and shrugs, and I know that he knows he's being overly sensitive right now and can do nothing to stop it.

"I just want to make sure…you know…I mean…"

"Honey, I don't measure our love-making in minutes. I never look at the clock when we start, so I have no idea how long it takes to get through it all. I gauge it in how it makes me feel. That's honestly the only part that really matters. Well, not just how I feel during it, but how it makes _us_ feel. As long as we feel satisfied, that's all I care about. We could have been having sex for an hour just now for all I know, or it could have been five minutes start to finish. Who knows? Who _cares?_ Don't stress yourself out over something like that." He still looks mostly unconvinced, and I hate that I'm really not sure how to snap him out of it. Realistically, I know it's not really that different than all of the stupid little things I freak out about constantly, but he's somehow really good at talking me off a ledge. I always feel like I'm dropping the ball when it's my turn.

I lean in and give him a kiss, pressing my forehead to his. "We're amazing together, in every way imaginable. You know that. I have no complaints. Please—don't doubt yourself with this. The sex we just had was _amazing_. Didn't you think so?"

His head snaps back a little, his eyes wide. "God, Donna, of _course._ It was incredible. But…"

"Josh, why is so hard to believe that it was just as good for me? You're not selfish in bed. Even if, for some reason, we had sex at warp speed, you still took care of my needs." I lean in and give him another kiss. "It's okay to be insecure—everyone is once in a while—but you shouldn't be about us. You never have to wonder about us or your place in my life or how you make me feel. When we're together like this…I can feel how much you love me. You don't have to say it because it's…it's like…like you're transferring it to me." He snorts a little and I smile self-deprecatingly in return. "I know how dumb that sounds, but I don't know how else to describe it. Every single thing you do, every time you touch me, every move you make, tells me what you feel for me. That's all that matters to me. And for what it's worth, and I know I've told you this before and maybe you just need to hear it again, but you're the best I've ever had. Ever. Bad sex with you would still be better than good sex with someone else, at least I assume so because we've never had _bad_ sex. If you'd like, I can go into details of previous partners so you can get an idea of what you're up against."

He chuckles a little, his entire body shaking. "No, I'm good."

"Good. Stop being so hard on yourself." I pause, waiting to see if he'll bite.

"Donnatella Moss…did you just say 'hard on'?"

"Don't be a schmuck," I tell him, giving him another kiss before I resituate myself and lay my head down next to his.

"But you said 'hard on.'"

"You're such a child." I bury my face in his neck so he can't see me smile. "I said, 'Stop being so hard on yourself.' You're the one who's taking a perfectly lovely sentiment and turning it into something juvenile."

His arm drapes over me, his hand pressing into my back to pull me closer. "It was deliberate and you know it. You set it up for me. You can pretend to act all sweet and innocent and offended by my sense of humor, and you might even get some people to fall for it, but I _know_ you, Donna. I know you better than I know myself. You're just as crass as I am—sometimes worse—and you _love_ a good boner joke, almost as much as you love the bad ones."

I don't bother trying to disguise my grin because he's not wrong. I do have a strange, offbeat sense of humor, and I giggle like a middle school boy when I hear something that remotely sounds like it might be referring to male genitalia…or female genitalia. I mean, I don't always catch the references if I'm having a normal conversation, but if my concentration happens to slip at the wrong moment, all I can focus on are dirty references. And God forbid anyone happen to mention the number "sixty nine." I made the mistake of laughing about that one time while watching a weather report with Josh, and he couldn't contain himself. He finds every way imaginable to mention it in my presence, as often as possible. Unfortunately for him, it goes both ways, and I've caught him snickering over it on more than one occasion. If we happen to be in some meeting where the number is mentioned, we absolutely _cannot_ look at each other. I really wish I knew why I found such humor in it—especially because, when we actually do that act, it's incredible and anything but funny—but I suppose it's the part of me that has never grown up. I don't know how I managed to hide that particular facet of my personality from him all these years, but he never knew about it until we got together. Good thing, too, because I really never would have heard the end of it.

However, I think the mission has been accomplished and he's stopped flagellating himself for thinking he rushed the moment. It's not always so easy to pull him out of it, but I think that he just needed his ego stroked this time.

His fingers are still running over my back, though very slowly now, so he's on the verge of sleep again. Hopefully, he'll sleep past six or seven—I still have no idea what time it is, but I can imagine that's only a few hours away. I push one of my legs between his, trying to press myself closer to him, and he sighs contentedly in response.

"Hey!" he exclaims suddenly, making me jump in surprise. "We didn't break the bed."

I shake my head, not even bothering to lift it up to look at him, and slide my arm under his to rub his back. "Were you really expecting us to?"

"Well, I mean, a little. It would have been nice to do _some_ sort of damage."

"The headboard saw a lot of action," I tell him in the best soothing voice I'm capable of right now. "We'll check in the morning to see if we hurt the wall."

"But how will you know how much I missed you if our bed is still in one piece?"

"Oh, trust me, Josh. I'm aware of how much you missed me." I smile a little into his skin; I can still sort of feel him between my legs, my hips a little sore from the odd angle earlier, my muscles protesting the abuse they've endured with him tonight, but my body and mind are so completely satisfied that I can't bring myself to care about any of that.

He lets out a long sigh, his body unwinding more and more by the moment, and I'm happy that he's relaxed enough to go to sleep. It doesn't always happen that way.

"Love you," he mumbles, the words barely distinguishable as he drifts off, and it makes my heart thump almost painfully a few times in response.

"I love you, too," I whisper, letting my eyes fall shut.

Before I can drift off completely, Josh shifts, draping himself almost entirely across me. I push at his shoulder a few times, but he's out cold, perfectly content to all but smother me in my sleep. With some reluctance, I wiggle out from under his dead weight and turn over, scooting carefully toward my side of the bed. I'm sure I don't have long before he seeks me out in his sleep, trying to get closer to me, though all he'll do is throw himself over me again and possibly push me closer to the edge of the bed.

I tug the covers over my shoulders and curl up, missing the warmth of his body though not the feeling of being crushed by him flinging himself over me. If we ever do get a new bed, it's going to be a king size so I have a chance of getting part of it to myself.

I glance over my shoulder, Josh's face faintly illuminated in the ambient light, and I feel myself melt a little. I push myself back toward him until I can feel his body heat. I know I'm just making it easier for him, but I really missed being near him for the last week and a half. I'll survive him throwing himself over me while we sleep.

It's worth it to be near him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the ballgame. I hope you guys enjoyed what you read. Hard to believe all this came from that one little snippet in another fic, isn't it? This story was sort of two separate ideas at the beginning—one with that constant "I love you" stuff, and another because I had this idea of Josh practically knocking over Donna as she got off a plane. Fortunately, my little pea brain helped me combine the two.
> 
> In case anyone wants to know, this was originally saved as "Executive One Foxtrot," because that's the name given to the plane anyone from the First Family flies on when the President isn't with them. I liked the concept, but I didn't like it as a title.
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone who has read, and to those that have reviewed/left kudos. It's much appreciated. I especially love you beautiful humans who read other stories and leave ideas in your reviews. Even if I never wind up writing any of them, they do make me think and sometimes lead to other ideas, so it's very helpful, especially because I haven't written much since I finished this one. I felt like I was tapping a dry well. Maybe I still am, but I'm typing up another story now that I'm super excited to finish because I think it's cute and want people to read it. I've been dragging my feet on posting that side-by-side story, but I'll get to it eventually. Actually kcat1971 said something in a review that has given me ideas for something else, but I'm positive that one's going to rated _extremely_ mature, if I ever get to writing it.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember that show Seinfeld and how it was about nothing? That’s what this fic is about. Seriously. It’s a waste of cyberspace and I’ve been working on it for far too long, and it’s way too long for something that’s garbage. If you like this part…well, remember that when you read the later chapters because this story became the trash pile for all of my random ideas.
> 
> I couldn’t think of a title for this effer to save my life and I am wholly unsatisfied with what I came up with. Don’t be surprised if it changes.
> 
> The last part of this story will require a rating change. I’ll let you know when that’s about to happen if you prefer to not read such things.
> 
> But also…thank you to anyone who reads this.


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